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.

My True Identity Revealed

I have discovered my true identity. This is groundbreaking stuff.

Much research, meditation, trips to India, ashramming, pursuing of religious fervour and hiring of Life Coaches goes on in the world for people to discover their true identity. I used none of the aforementioned methods. I had a revelatory moment. In the changing room of the gym.

All the pieces of my disparate personality began to make sense. Things like:

My fondness for large bags and umbrellas
Why snapping my fingers is so effective
My knack of bursting into song at any given moment
My winning ways with children
Why I am revered by penguins
How I can understand fake cockney accents
My general ability to defeat gravity
The cut of my coat
My charming cloche hat
Why sometimes my feet might turn outward
Why I am practically perfect

This is what happened:
I was in the gym changing rooms preparing to leave. I glanced at myself in the mirror. I am the spitting image of Mary Poppins. I am Mary Poppins.

I said to the Lawyer – ‘Look! See there!’ I pointed at the mirror, ‘I am Mary Poppins!’

She said ‘I know, but I didn’t like to mention it.’

How Not to Talk to the Birds – Or Mother’s Day Revisited

Today was Mother’s Day. I expect you noticed. I am a mother so it was my day.

The sun was shining, God was in her usual abode, all was as right in the world as it ever is.

I was conducting a scientific experiment. For it is the duty of us mothers to discover things and thus pass wisdom unto our offspring, the world, the scientific community in general and anyone who would care to listen (that anyone is yet to be discovered).

It was an experiment in linguistics and biology. To settle a question long questioned (well since the other night). A question that effects us all in our day-to-day dealings with the natural world.

This was the question:

Can we talk to birds?

The sub-questions were –

If so, should we talk in English, Welsh or Bird? (we take as a given that I am addressing Welsh Birds) (Obviously if I was addressing birds of another denomination the corresponding denominative would apply)

And should we find ourselves actually communicating, what are the favourite topics that birds like to discuss?

And why?

And wherefore?

Never mind the whys and wherefores we must also ask is talking to birds morally correct.

This is what happened:

I went into the garden to find a bird. I detected a singular lack of feathered creatures. Almost simultaneously I noticed a plethora of furred friends. I am a scientist. I can recognise cause and effect when they are purring around my ankles.

I sent Cause and Effect back indoors with a sharp word or two about interfering with cutting edge science.

I sat and tweeted and said ‘hello birds’ and ‘bora da Robin/Blue Tit/Sparrow/etc’ (I didn’t know the Welsh for ‘bird’).

And this is what I discovered:

Birds never speak English.

If birds speak Welsh they do it in a heavy Bird accent.

They like to talk about strange women who think they are birds.

They like to talk about strange women who think they are birds because they are bored of talking about the bloody cat problem.

I never answered the wherefore problem. No one ever has.

And finally yes, it is morally correct to talk to birds as long as your six-year-old neighbour doesn’t see you. Because when she does see you it leads her to believe that you are very brave and should now rescue her from a plague of wasps (3) that are infesting her play house.

Today was Mother’s Day. I expect you noticed us talking to the birds.

How Not to Celebrate Saint David’s Day

Today was St David’s Day. The Welsh Day.

Yesterday someone asked me ‘How are you going to celebrate St David’s Day?’

This (as you can imagine) threw me into a bit of a quandary.

In days of yore I’d have celebrated this most auspicious of days by dressing my children up in strange costumes made of old shawls, lacy doilies and antimacassars and then sending them to school thus attired. Much to their shame as the other children had proper costumes from ASDA and didn’t understand antimacassars.

Truth be told no one actually understands antimacassars.

The children, however, were not home. Or children. Or the least bit interested in the mysteries of antimacassars as they appear to have little relevance to either physics or the law (ah – the folly of youth, they’ll learn).

So, what to do? I hit upon an idea. A massive celebration meal that included Everything.

Or at least everything Welsh.

This is what happened:

First I invited a Welsh Family.

Then I mixed together chopped leeks, some spoonfuls of seaweed, a number of ripe daffs, half a loaf of Bara Brith, sixteen tons of coal and a tin of Catatonia.

Whilst this lot was gently simmering I popped down to the bottom of the garden to slay a dragon (being a tad short of handy knights at the mo I had to do it myself). But the dragon was quite sexy in a clawed sort of way so instead of slaying him I invited him to dinner.

My guests (The Jones Family) all were very polite. Tom asked ‘What’s new pussycat?’ (I think he fancied me). Aled was walking on air (I think he fancied me). Gryf commented on my fine mouldings (I think he fancied me). Only Catherine-Zeta seemed a bit upset. ‘What, no antimacassars?’ she whined.

Luckily the dragon ate her (I think he fancied me) (or it could have been the antimacassar I was wearing under my old shawl).

The Renaissance Willy

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

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

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

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

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


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


Note the nice bow.

And my final proof comes with this:

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

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

How Not to Find a G-Spot

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

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

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

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

Items such as:

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

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

Items such as:

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


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

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


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

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

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

How Yoga Might Not Improve Your Sex Life

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

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

This is what happened:

I breathed in.
I breathed out.

So far so good, no problem really.

I practiced some specific yoga postures:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

I lay down and waited.

I still am.