Todger Talk

Manbits #15

2009-07-14T14:42:00.004+01:00

*** If you're male, and you want a bit of advice on your sexy, sexy mither, drop us an e-mail at todger dot talk at googlemail dot com ***

Geordie writes: I'm in my late thirties and in a long-term relationship. It's a good relationship, except the sex is utterly crap and that's down to me. I sometimes get erections, but can't sustain them. Never have been able to. NEVER.

I've done all the usual man tricks for sorting this out. First, I ignored it. Then I finally went to my GP. Eventually got around to asking to be sent to see a specialist. I've been seen by urologists and endoctrinologists. Had my tackle examined intimately, testosterone measured, testicle size (yes, done by an attractive female endocrinologist) taken. They reckon that everything seems OK and to take Viagra or similar. The problem with Viagra is that it gives me headaches and a "buzzing" kind of flush that really turns me off.

I've been prescribed the other anti-impotence drugs too, but they're just the same. You can imagine the number of relationships this has killed, and at least one ex thinks that she must look awful naked because I didn't get (visibly) turned on.

The doctors have also recommended sexual therapy. Now, I'm willing to do this, but my girlfriend is dead set against it and certainly wouldn't go along. I really don't know whether it's in the mind or not. I'm at the stage now where I've been able to comfortably talk about it (with a female friend and even told my current about it as soon as we met). I even had one GP appointment with a trainee that was being videotaped for training purposes. I really don't think that talking about it has really helped though. Any suggestions as to what to do?

Dr Ayan says: You're not alone, mate. I see so many guys with similar problems.

We always want to rule out physical causes first, so that means: knocking booze and fags on the head, increasing your amount of aerobic exercise, making sure your blood pressure is normal, ensuring that you're not overweight or diabetic. I'm assuming you've done all this. If you haven't, you need to address this before anything else - even if it is only two pints a night or five fags a day - it really can make a massive difference to some people.

Then we look at the psychological side of things. Are you under huge stress? Did you have any difficult sexual experiences? Are there things from your youth that may be affecting your sexual performance or confidence? This is all a bit touchy-feely, but can only be explored through psychosexual counselling which is generally very useful. The therapist - sorry for the Americanism - will carefully listen to the words you use, listen to your story and delve deeper into any issues that may arise or be relevant.

Usually, these 'issues' are beyond your own conscious realm of understanding. A case I remember hearing about years ago was about a young athlete who just could not stay erect or ejaculate when he was with any of his many partners over the years. It turned out, after some therapy sessions, that he had a disabled brother who died when he was a child and that subconcsiously he was 'withholding' his sperm in case he created a sick child. Once he'd acknowledged this, his problem disappeared.

There's no way you can get to the bottom of this kind of thing in just one GP consultation, as the issues are so deeply buried in the back of the mind. If you go through the counselling and there's STILL no joy, then you can try other drugs or even try surgery as a last resort but give the counselling a go - it may change your life.

'Mr Sex' says: Well, I can't really add much to that, apart from addressing your partner. Seriously, and in the nicest way possible, what the fuck is up with her? Does she not want a seeing-to off you, then? While I totally understand the reticence of certain people to get counselling for relationship issues, I think she's being well unfair to you here. After all, you have gone to great pains to point out that it's your problem, it's a problem that has fucked over other relationships in the past, and you don't want it to fuck up this one.

It's pretty obvious that you are asking for her support and nothing else, and if she's not prepared to give it up - whether she goes with you or steps back and gives you the time to do what you need to do to get over - then unfortunately she's another obstacle in the way. Harsh, but true. And yes, this cuts both ways - plenty of men assume that a long-seated sexual problem that their partner is going through is something to do with them, and it'll be their sexual performance that'll be up for scrutiny, the sucky sods.

My advice? Listen to Dr.A.

Readers of TT: comment!

Normal Service Shall Be Resumed Shortly

2009-07-14T12:19:00.004+01:00

Er, yes. Apologies for letting go of the reins of the Unstoppable Sex-Horse, me dears - Sam has been busy picking his way along the path of recovery, while 'Mr Sex' has been unavoidably detained. Sit tight. Back very soon. Promise.

(image courtesy of the wonderfully twisted Rob White, illustrator extraordinaire and occasional colleague of 'Mr Sex'. Check his website out, it's mental)

Sam: You know you're getting better when...

2009-06-25T15:13:00.001+01:00

When I first came out of surgery and was in recovery, one of my best friends came to see me. He asked me how I was, and apparently all I could say was "ARRRGGGHEEERRRUUUUGHHHHH".

The other day, I spent 47 minutes on the line to a bureaucrat who kept asking the same questions over and over because apparently the system was broken. I had to really bite my tongue and stop myself from saying; "Yes, I fucking know the system is broken".

The reason I was on the phone for that long was to apply for a programme that will help me get back to work and provide the assistance I need, but good Lord - expecting someone who's disabled to spend 47 minutes on the phone is ridiculous. But when you can get through an ordeal like that, you know you're getting better.

As opposed to; "ARRRGGGHEEERRRUUUUGHHHHH".

'Mr Sex' sees the writing on the wall

2009-06-16T02:30:00.008+01:00

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

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

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

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

I L

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

I LIKE

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dan: Flyering Low

2009-06-12T09:50:00.003+01:00

Being the director of a company should have gravitas, should come with power and should drip with respectability. A live events production company no less, a funky business that deals in comedy, live music…you know, fun stuff, with cool people who wear massive sunglasses that hide the dark circles from the coke-fuelled parties the night before.

In reality, I spent yesterday handing out flyers for an event we’re running in Madame JoJo’s in Soho and getting ignored. By far the worst were the looks of utter disgust from office girls – you try offering a flyer to a girl dressed in work clothes and looking all ‘pouty’, and see what reaction you get. One pair of girls actually laughed at me, with one saying as she walked past, "obviously can’t get a real job" which I felt was rather…well, nasty.

It’s funny as well, because the traits a lot of women like (or seem to) involve hard-working, dedicated and outgoing types, not forgetting GSOH. Lets look at the evidence here: I run my own company, I’ll do whatever it takes to make stuff work including flyering or dressing up, and I do my own stand-up comedy during the week. I’m all over those qualities, surely – and also, I'm flyering for a charity event with five major UK charities being represented (RNLI, Teenage Cancer Trust, Oxfam, Centrepoint and International Medical Corps) so I’m giving too! Although I confess the phrase ‘kill two birds with one stone’ popped into my head. But there was no loose masonry nearby.

It always gets my goat when people dismiss others – especially when it’s me!

Anyhow, if any of you lovely readers would like to come down tonight, all the details are here at www.crowntheclown.com - and if you turn up on the door mentioning 'Todger Talk you can have the £8 price usually reserved for those who book on-line. All the door takings are donated to charity so you can have a good laugh and give something.

Manbits and Something For The Ladies

2009-06-04T20:34:00.002+01:00

OK, the good ship Todger Talk is slowly coming back together, but you may have noticed that our advice sections - Manbits and Something For The Ladies - have gone a bit AWOL. I can only surmise that either;

a) all our readers are in completely brilliant relationships

or;

b) you need a gentle reminder/kick up the arse.

So, once again...

Ladies: If there's ever been anything about men you've wanted to know but were afraid to ask, or wanted a male viewpoint on a certain relationship niggle you're going through, drop an email to us at todger dot talk at googlemail dot com. And chaps; If you're male, and you want a bit of advice on your sexy, sexy mither, drop us an e-mail at - you guessed it - todger dot talk at googlemail dot com.

As a treat - or possibly punishment - here's a lovely video Dan came across when he was dossing about through YouTube the other day. God knows what he put in the search engine to get this, but it's nice to see that someone in Prague is Thinking Of The Children;

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

2009-06-02T02:32:00.007+01:00

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

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

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

So, this is how it feels;

1. You feel numb as fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam: Death of a Cynic

2009-06-01T09:00:00.002+01:00

Before my stroke, my view of human nature was pretty hard-nosed and cynical. Essentially, I was sure we were all just self-interested animals, only focused on eating, fucking, carving out territory and then protecting that territory and our own self-interest.

I survived my stroke, but strangely my cynic has died. In leaving hospital, I have been astounded at the incredible kindness shown to me by so many of my family and friends, particularly my mother and father-in-law, who have come and helped out with my recovery literally every other day and some of my very loyal friends, who have slept over when times are hard and spent days on end “working from home”, which really meant running around catering for my little needs during the day. And my extraordinary soon- to-be-wife, who has been a mixture of Wonderwoman and Supergirl, being incredibly loyal, loving, seemingly indefatigable. And many members of my own family overseas, including my mother who came all the way from Australia to visit me. And my stepfather whose wise words and steady character have helped keep me on course. Enough American-style gushy sentimentality!

My new view of the world adheres more with that of one of my great intellectual icons, Desmond Morris, who still says we are all animals, but that we are programmed to want to co-operate and help other members of our own species. Our brains are rewarded when we help other members of our own tribe.

A huge thank you must go to Mr Sex, who has pretty much single-handedly kept Todger Talk alive, kicking and thriving. So dear readers, in the comments section, can you please lavish your appreciation on Mr Sex.

And lady readers, if you live within commuting distance of Nottingham and you fancy lavishing more than words or you would like to make his next visit to London more exciting, please remember that Mr Sex is that rarest of men: he is single, can make you laugh, can talk about his emotions openly and his first published book was nothing less than ‘The Going Down guide’. I mean, ladies, what more could you want in a man? You can contact him through his blogger profile…

Sam: Not Such Morning Glory

2009-05-29T10:38:00.002+01:00

Morning Glory - the circumstance whereupon a man wakes up with an erection - is something that every man should celebrate. Because it means that his penis is still working. I've just discovered in hospital, unfortunately, that there is little glory attached to it. At all.

There are various disadvantages, because at a cetain point a nurse will come along and require you to pee into a bottle. Have you ever tried to put an erect penis into a bottle and peeing into it? It's very, very difficult. And that's not even including the embarassment of greeting your first nurse of the morning with a good (or even feeble) erection. My tip - wait until it's died down a bit before even thinking of summoning anyone to your bedside.

Now I'm out of hospital, I'm more grateful of my Morning Glory than ever before. And gentlemen of the world, so should you be. Of yours, that is. Not mine.

Dan: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned…

2009-05-26T13:44:00.004+01:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Mr Sex' (and Any Major Dude With Half A Heart): Songs for the Dumped

2009-05-22T08:09:00.007+01:00

So do you want another example as to why women have a far easier time with relationship issues than men? Go to the karaoke, and I guaran-damn-tee you that there will be at least one woman making a dog’s arse out of I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor, proclaiming to the world that she’s finally over that twatty ex and is a strong, independent woman who won’t be held down by rubbish blokes ever again (before ruining the effect by going off for a crying jag in the toilets or clamping herself to some random Jeremy Kyle guest in a Lonsdale top).

All well and good. But what about those of us who have penises? Where’s our I Will Survive – songs that allow ourselves to roar with pride that we’re not being dicked about by exes anymore and have moved on with grace and dignity without resorting to outright misogyny (whilst simultaneously letting the female population of the pub be aware of the fact that they can queue up for a portion)?

Having been kept awake for ages at night going through the Guinness Book of Hit Singles of my mind, I finally snapped and sent out the Sex-Signal to my esteemed musical blog-chum, the amazingly brilliant Any Major Dude With Half A Heart, asking him to come up with five tunes men could fall back on. Not only has he come up with ten, he’s also got them ready for download (and he whipped the best ones, as he’s a thousand times more organised than I). His ten are here, mine are below – but first, please be aware of the following provisos;

1) This list is written under the assumption that the bloke running the karaoke has a ludicrously eclectic range of songs, and not just the usual rubbish.

2) It’s also written under the assumption that said karaoke is not rammed with the usual bumfluff-‘tached Oompah-Loompahs who want to do fucking Angels, or the mad old trout who demands to sing Crazy at least seven times.

3) It’s really, really hard to find male versions of I Will Survive, as you will soon discover. Most of the songs I’ve settled on don’t quite match the sentiments of the former – and some of them are not the most right-on in tone - but they all manage to carry off the impressive feat of sounding triumphant in defeat.

4) I reserve the right to swear a lot when you come up with glaringly obvious suggestions that are miles better than mine.

AMDWHAH’s Top Ten

Ben Folds Five – Song For The Dumped

Song For The Dumped really is the national anthem of embittered dumpees. Ben Folds has been discarded with pitiless diplomacy: “So you wanted to take a break, slow it down some and have some space…” He stood no chance; you can’t argue yourself out of that one. How would you respond? And how would you like to respond. Probably like Folds: “Well, fuck you too.” Less than considerate? Perhaps. But, man, he had just BOUGHT HER DINNER. Now he wants his money back, “and don’t forget to give me back my black T-shirt”. Yeah! Give him back the black T-shirt! The new girlfriend is getting cold!

Tom Waits – Who Are You

Ben Folds wants to her to give back the T-shirt; Waits wants her to TAKE BACK what she gave him: lies. And he’s only getting started in what might be the greatest fuck-off song from the male perspective. “Did my time – in the jail of your arms.” Oooh! “Go on ahead and take this the wrong way, time’s not your friend.” Ouch! “Are you pretending to love? Well, I hear that it pays well.” Oooof!

Godsmack – I Fucking Hate You

It is fair to say that Godsmack’s repertoire of scathing zingers is rather more slender than that of Waits and they do lack Ben Folds cutting drollness, but they sing from the heart. Not only was that horrid ex apparently lying to Mr Smack, but she also impugned his good character (and we must trust that his integrity was entirely unimpeachable before), as the lyric suggest: “And every day I’m gonna blame you, even if you justify every fuckin’ bullshit lie…it only makes me want to break you.” Inarticulation often accompanies a broken heart, which might explain the lyrical descend to the levels subsequently occupied by Paris Hilton on her excursion into the world of popular music: “Don’t ever look my way. Don’t even think I’m playin’, cause I fuckin’ hate you. You’re such a liar; I love to hate you” (punctuation is mine; as conceived by the lyricist, none might have been intended). And with that out of the way, we can finally deliberate on the heart of the song: “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!” And why not? Sometimes that is all that needs to be said.

Justin Timberlake – Cry Me A River

The song apparently was a riposte to Britney Spears’ alleged infidelity. Likewise, our notional karaoke singer might have been the blameless party in a split generated by a betrayal. He might have done the dumping, but the betrayal was hers. Either way, the relationship is over, no matter how much she begs. “Girl I refuse, you must have me confused with some other guy. Your bridges were burned, and now it’s your turn to cry, cry me a river.” The sentiment, of course, borrows from a much greater song by the same title. That one is more commonly sung by women (best heard in Julie London’s version).

Hank Williams – Your Cheating Heart

Where Timberlake is piqued over Britn… the girl’s infidelity, Hank Williams (the first one, not the McCain-lovin’ son) navigates the byways of false empathy as he sketches out what emotional turmoil awaits the indiscreet ex. “Your cheatin’ heart will make you weep. You’ll cry and cry and try to sleep.” Just reward for cheating on the doubtless scrupulously faithful Hank. Of course Hank may just be hoping or projecting; the girl might well be pleased to be rid of him, and perhaps with good reason. But just in case she isn’t, he adds: “You’ll toss around and call my name.” And wouldn’t that just settle the score?

Lou Rawls - You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine

Where Hank Williams wishes psychological suffering upon his ex, Lou is more sanguine about love lost — and he can afford to be, since he was only rejected, not cheated upon. His cheer obviously is a mask: when he says she won’t ever find anyone as good as him, he is bathed in anguish, and not making an intrepid foray into the dark art of divination, his rebuff of “ifs and buts and maybes” notwithstanding. He’s not “bragging on myself, baby”; it’s just inconceivable that anyone can love her as tenderly and completely as he has. She’ll regret rejecting him. “Late in the midnight hour, baby — you’re gonna miss my lovin’. When it’s cold outside — you’re gonna miss my lovin’.” His whoa-whoas serve to underline the hopeful taunt. He’ll get over her in good time, and when she realises what she has lost, it’ll be too late. Take that, you wretched waster of good love!

Any rejected fool in love will know precisely what Lou is talking about. Twenty years ago, I was such a fool, suffering from unrequited love, a distressing case of frienditis, with Elizabeth (not necessarily her real name). One night at a club, You’ll Never Find... came on. While she was dancing with some random other, I whispered to my friend: “And I dedicate this song to Elizabeth.” Our mutual friend emphatically agreed with the sentiment. Well, Elizabeth just didn’t love me that way. The way she did love me was expressed by ramming a stake through my heart while cackling viciously like a particularly sinister witch in Macbeth as portrayed by an overacting diva as she told me that we should just be friends. I recently caught up with Elizabeth. She is happily married to a nice man who clearly adores her, and she him. So Lou proved to be less than prescient. But at the time, his anthem of defiant self-validation in which she, not he, was the big loser helped to shake the heavy dust of lovelorn despondency off my shoulders. And within only a year and a half, I was even over her…

Whitesnake – Here I Go Again

Some men are accumulating experience at being dumped, much like our present friend as he goes again here. He won’t waste much time mourning the old relationship. In karaoke mode, he is proclaiming himself ready to be swept off his feet by the next knightess in shining lycra. And what woman of compassionate spirit would fail to give the man a chance when he philosophies: “I’m just another heart in need of rescue, waiting on love’s sweet charity. And I’m gonna hold on for the rest of my days, ’cos I know what it means to walk along the lonely street of dreams.” Sure, the poetry is risible, but he probably will get laid tonight.

Garth Brooks – Friends In Low Places

Being dumped for reasons of economic class just isn’t right-on. But this is what has happened to Garth Brooks (or the song’s first-person protagonist). He confronts her for a final time on her wedding day. And as he might in the rejected script for a rom-com, Brooks trespasses on the nuptials in his cowboy boots (and perhaps a 12 gallon Stetson), intimidates the alarmed groom, and tells the bride that he’s down with her new life — as turning up uninvited to an ex’s wedding invariably communicates. “I toasted you, said, ‘honey, we may be through’, but you’ll never hear me complain.” With bravado he celebrates having found refuge in drink among the flies at his local bar (here we imagine a joint where Achy Breaky Heart commands respect) populated by the cohort of low social expectations in the title. Brooks is, as we and his ex can guess, fooling himself. But at least he can get in a little dig as he makes his declaration of emotional independence: “Hey, I didn’t mean to cause a big scene. Just give me an hour and then…well, I’ll be as high as that ivory tower that you’re livin’ in.” At which point his lowly-placed pals join in the rousing, presumably alcohol-fuelled chorus.

Prefab Sprout – When Love Breaks Down

The dumped karaoke song for the more introspective, analytical man. It isn’t even clear yet that he has been dumped, or that the relationship is over. But our hero is already making plans for that eventuality, which he seems to regard as virtually inevitable. So, what happens when love breaks down? Firstly, you stop the truth from hurting you. Secondly, you lie to yourself (as some of our friends in the preceding songs have done). Thirdly, “you join the wrecks who leave their hearts for easy sex”. Which is why we are presently singing karaoke songs about failed relationship in a bar populated with women in first place.

New York City – I’m Doing Fine Now

At the beginning of the post I flagged Ben Folds Five’s Song For The Dumped as the national anthem for the dumped, but the real song of recovery, of liberation from the cast irons of a broken heart, is this glorious soul number from 1973. The protagonist is at a more advanced stage of recovery than our notional karaokist, but projecting an aspirational confidence that happiness will return with a new love certainly would do no damage to the prospect of getting laid or, depending on your temperament, strike up a rewarding relationship with a very nice girl. The opening verse updates us comprehensively: “Remember the day you up and left? I nearly cried myself to death, oh yeah. And then I met someone else. She made me stop and get a-hold of myself.” And here comes the taunt: “Oh girl, I’m doin’ fine now, without you, baby.” Repeated often enough to drive home the message: what the hell was I doing tormenting myself over you for?

‘Mr Sex’’s Top Ten

Iron Man – Black Sabbath

This song might sound like a big metal robot getting ready to kick the world’s face in, but don’t be fooled – the sentiments are as close as it gets to the male version of IWS. Ignore the rammell about being turned to steel in the great magnetic field – that’s Ozzy trying to say that he’s been chucked by a bird without his mates twigging and taking the piss out of him. Perfectly male sentiments, too – while Gloria gets over her ex by finding someone better, Ozzy can only purge his feelings of rejection by pretending to be 100 feet tall and putting his metal Doc Martens through a building. Because we’ve all thought that, haven’t we, chaps?

By The Time I Get To Phoenix – Isaac Hayes

And yes, it has to be the full Isaac Hayes version. While Glen Campbell sounds like a deadbeat Dad making a midnight flit with a barmaid half his age, Black Moses takes the time to explain that his ex was a right slapper who made him work triple-time so she could get her nails done, and only now does she realise how mint he is, ha ha. Problem is, he takes eleven minutes to lay this all out before he sings note number one, so you’re going to have to work your arse off to prevent a bum-rush by the woman desperate to sing fucking Crazy again and a hail of empty WKD bottles. Wearing a dressing gown made of gold chains might help.

Say Hello, Wave Goodbye – Soft Cell

Marc Almond might not be the most aggressively masculine singer in this list (and the opening line forces you to state that a) you’ve had a bit of a roar and b) you knock about in a pub called The Pink Flamingo), but don’t let that put you off, because the glee with which he lays into his rubbish ex is a joy to behold. Bonus points for the subtle allusion that you’re after a ‘nice little housewife’, as the pub will be full of ‘em. I’d mention the David Gray version, but I’d rather not, as I’ve never heard it.

Who’s Gonna Take The Blame – Smokey Robinson and the Miracles

Poor old Smokey seems to have spent the vast majority of his life being pissed about by women, but he clocked what the girl in this song was all about ages ago; a window-smashing, abusive cow who needed getting shot of. Naturally, said harridan becomes a ‘woman of the street’. Smokey charitably alludes that he tried his best, but he’s bragging, really. Moral – you’re going to end up having sex for money in graveyards for dumping me, you rotten cow.

Stone Free – Jimi Hendrix

It was either this or Roadrunner by Junior Walker and the All-Stars, because the sentiments are the same: I’m single because I go round the country (possibly as a sales rep), I can’t be doing with women putting me in a plastic cage (by making me stay in and watch Strictly Come Dancing), and I’m a wild spirit who needs to live his life the way he needs to, in order to be spiritually fulfilled (by downloading porn torrents, watching back-to-back episodes of Top Gear, and playing Football Manager until 3am next to a stack of pizza boxes).

Devil Woman – Cliff Richard

The standard get-out clause for any dumped male: She Was Mental. And Cliff (who has allegedly not had it off since rationing was stopped in the UK) is in full-on warning mode about his ex, who sounds a bit like that cat-woman in Conan The Barbarian who turns into a ball of flame after that romp in the cave, advising any other bloke sniffing around to LEG IT. Whilst subtly bragging that he’s been there, of course.

Get Out My Life Woman – Lee Dorsey

As you’ve noticed, the tone is changing very quickly from ‘I will grow stronger without you’ to ‘Oh, bollocks to you, then’. And this is probably the most elegant, understated OBTYT I’ve ever come across.

Jilted John – Jilted John

The most joyous, cathartic, triumphant I’ve-been-dumped song ever. She is a slag. And he’s a creep. She is a tart. He’s very cheap. She is a slut. He think’s he’s tough. She is a bitch. He is a puff.

(and Kid Jensen can shut his gob in that video, the cheeky bastard).

Fuck Off – Wayne County and the Electric Chairs

Say no more. But be aware the singer in question ended up having a sex change. There's getting over someone, and getting over someone.

I Will Survive – Cake

Sod it, why not? 99.99999% of songs don’t have genitals, and the ones that do can easily be operated on.

So what have we missed, then?

(and for more AMDWHAH musings of music and love, click here)

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

2009-05-18T17:50:00.004+01:00

Part of me was delighted to notice that a news story from my own dear hometown was the most looked-at article on the BBC News website over the weekend. After reading said story - about a Dad who took his 14 year-old lad to the local red light district in order to lose his virginity, only to ask an undercover police officer if she was 'doing business' - the other 99.999999% buried its face into its hands and howled "No, NO, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

As I've lived next to the estate of Bulwell for an alarmingly hefty chunk of my life (and I worked as a bingo caller there half a lifetime ago - great job if you like wearing ball-constricting Sta-Prest trousers and having your arsed mauled by the elderly), I've developed a few theories as to why Dad thought that giving his 14 year-old son a prostitutional treat for his birthday was the thing to do;

1. Dad was worried that his son was falling behind at school.

2. Dad was concerned that his son might be gay, for various reasons (such as not having got anyone pregnant yet, not being a school bully, or wanting to be a vegetarian or an Emo - hey, that's pretty much the reasons my Dad thought I was, in his own words, 'A fookin' ginger beer'. Apart from the Emo bit), and wanted to 'put him right'.

3. and probably the most likely explanation - Dad is a fucking mouth-breathing bell-end.

Naturally, when this story hit the local newspaper website, all manner of window-lickers chipped in with comments on how they wished they had a Dad like that (because underaged boys + older women = Good Paedophilia, remember). If anyone reading this actually agrees with that theory, imagine yourself stuck in a Ford Cortina at the age of 14, with your Dad dispensing pearls of wisdom such as "Just gerrit aht and lob it oop her", and "This is where I go when your Mam starts getting on me tits". That's not going to completely fuck up your sexual development at all, is it?

So should Dad have been put on the Sex Offenders register? Yes. And he should also be hung from the balcony of the Market Square by his knackers and used as a pinata by anyone waiting for their date to turn up by the Left Lion.

Sam: Hospital Survival Guide

2009-05-15T17:00:00.006+01:00

If you ever have the unfortunate experience of being in hospital for a long stretch of time, or know someone who is about to, the following points might just help. Memorise all of them.

Firstly, and most importantly, ask for what you want. I asked for Morphine, and much to my surprise, I got it. I probably ended up keeping half the farmers in Afghanistan in business, which I think was a fair trade. They make a living, and I wasn't living in pain.

Second point: always remember that you are in a queue. So just before you're about to whack the button for attention, take a deep breath into the bottom of your stomach, and count to ten. Because there are probably thirty other people whacking the button at the same time, and the nurses are doing their best to get to you. If you were in a queue at the bank, would you shout "Get the fuck out of the way and give me my fucking money right now"? No. You'd wait.

Third point: throw round lots of mackerel. No, I'm not still on the morphine - it's a lesson I learned from What Shamu Taught Me About Life, Love and Marriage by Amy Sutherland, which is one of the best books I've read about human and animal psychology for as long as I can remember. Basically, because NHS staff get treated like shit by higher authorities - and distressingly, even by some of the people who they're looking after - they're deprived of mackerel (i.e., positive feedback). I find that by merely saying 'please' and 'thank you', you find very quickly that they're happy to do what you want.

Fourth point: understand the structure of the ward. The nurses don't really have the power to change anything - you'll have to get hold of a doctor for that. So don't harass them when you know they can't do anything about it.

Fifth point: find a spot for everything. Not because your essential items will get nicked - they just disappear. Particularly the stuff that keeps you alive, and fends off boredom.

Sixth point, and very important: pull your weight. If there's anything you can do for yourself, do it. Every bit of help you give the staff, they will pay it back twenty times over.

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

2009-05-14T19:51:00.000+01:00

A bit of a setback for Ireland’s Most Romantic Couple. Click that link, and be prepared for possibly the greatest opening paragraph in the history of newspaper reportage. I love the use of the word ‘may’, as if a committee is about to meet and say “Ah, fair play to him, he bought her some flowers in a garage after he wiped his hands down, but. And a packet of Revels”

'Mr Sex' on this new male contraceptive injection thing

2009-05-11T12:10:00.006+01:00

So, there's been a big fuss about the announcement of a new jab that could be the Male Pill we've all be waiting for. And this one, by the sound of it, might just work. Mint. Finally, just like women nearly fifty years ago, men get to cast off their fears about pregnancy and become more sexually liberated and up for one-night stands and stuff like that, because it's about time. I'm already lining up a few mini-skirts for myself.

Thing is, whenever I read anything about a Male Pill, my mind goes back to the first nudey book I ever chanced across, in the mid-70s, and an advert I saw for something called The Vascectomy Club. On payment of a couple of quid - and I swear blind I'm not making this up - you could buy a tie and a blazer badge that would subtly let all the womenfolk know that you had had The Snip and wouldn't get them up the stick. And when applying for this club, did you have to supply proof of said snip? Did you fuck (70s wank mags were horrible like that - I must write about them one day).

But anyway, when you think about it, the idea of a Male Pill as a cure-all has been dead in the water for over a quarter of a century, hasn't it? Alright, let's say that a Male Pill (or a Male Jab or a Male Suppository or a Male Anything) comes onto the market, and it works. Putting aside the fact that a lot of men are more than capable of forgetting or not being arsed to take medication for heart problems, it's going to be a boon for those of us in monogamous relationships. But what about us single and eligible shag-rats? Here's a quick questionnaire;

If there was a Male Pill and it worked, would I take it?
Hell motherflippin' yes. Johnnies are horrible.

Would any woman I came into contact with believe me when I said I had?
In a pig's arse would she.

And what protection from STDs would this Pill give me and her?
Precisely fuck all.

And there you go. The Male Pill is an inevitability, but unless you could take it in front of your partner and it worked immediately, or if everyone who signed up for it had an LCD screen embedded in their forehead that flashed; "YES, HE'S ON IT, DON'T PANIC", nothing is really going to change, regardless of what the papers tell you. We're still going to have to wait for the pub toilets to be completely empty before furtively shoving three quid in the johnny machine.

Manbits #14

2009-04-28T12:47:00.004+01:00

*** If you're male, and you want a bit of advice on your sexy, sexy mither, drop us an e-mail at todger dot talk at googlemail dot com ***

Anonymous writes: OK, here's the situation: there's this well sexy and extremely upfront girl I used to see in the pub a few years ago, and we got on really well and flirted like mad with each other - even though nothing happened. Then she disappeared. Three years later, she suddenly reappears after having a kid and settling down with someone. We went out for a drink, and were this close to going home together. She asks to see me the following week, and tells me that she's splitting up with this bloke because there's no chemistry and they're only together for the kid and if she stays with him any longer the relationship is going to get even worse, etc etc. Then she tells me that, although I have absolutely nothing to do with her splitting up and she doesn't want a relationship, she wants me to be her fuckbuddy.

Here's the awkward bits - 1) She hasn't had sex in 2 years, 2) It’s been a while for me too, 3) she's 21 and I'm 39, and 4) The last time I had a one-night stand I couldn't get it up, and I'm terrified it might happen again. I’ve never done this sort of thing before, and half of me is champing at the bit thinking of the sex bonanza on the horizon, while the other half is scared that it's going to be a disaster. How do I play this?

'Mr Sex' says: Cor. And there was me thinking you were going to say; "I'm not asking for advice - I just need to brag about it to someone".

OK, a lot of shit to wade through here, so I'll take it step by step. First off; 'Fuckbuddy' has to be the most nauseous word in the entire sexual lexicon – the Sexicon, if you will. It makes people sound like big fluffy Care Bears with massive engorged genitals, and completely fails to encapsulate the emotion, level of trust and intimacy that relationships such as this contain. So anyway, you've got yourself a knock-off. Hurrah! And yes, it looks like an avalanche of shagging in forthcoming. But you’re right to be a bit cautious. After all, and I don’t care what anyone else says, ‘casual sex’ is an oxymoron; no-one lobs their nob into someone else’s fanny in a casual manner. Unless they’re David Hunter off Crossroads, maybe.

Firstly, you and your lady friend need to make the arrangement as uncomplicated as possible, by laying down some ground rules - so both of you know where you stand. I’ve never done this kind of thing before, so I’m guessing a bit here, but I reckon something along the lines of the following would suffice;

1. The needs of the nipper come first (for obvious reasons)
2. The sex bits happen at your place, if that’s feasible (so said nipper doesn’t get involved, and you don’t have to be ‘Uncle Anonymous’)
3. If either of you come across someone you want to have a relationship with, you give your knock-off as much advance notice as possible
4. Above all, absolute honesty at all times.

I'm definitely not an expert on these matters, so I'll leave it to our lovely readers. As for the age issue - it obviously doesn't bother her, so why should it mither you? And there's very little point worrying about your performance - after all, she's probably looking for an older man who knows what he's doing and expects loads of foreplay. So give it to her, as it'll give you loads of time to calm down and let nature take its course.

Readers of TT: Comment!

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

2009-04-24T00:33:00.009+01:00

I'd been meaning to write one of my usual massively long posts on how to conduct a proper row in the street with your partner, but then this phenomenal clip showed up on YouTube;

Oh my. That has almost everything that makes up a textbook barney. A flurry of wild swings by the female, comprising of outrageous abuse towards the male's new choice of sexual partner. An exceptional defence strategy by the male (consisting of 'you're fucking mad' and 'don't hit me'). And then, a chink in the armour - the male admittance that he'd shag owt - that opens him right up to a combination of hammer-blows that leaves the opponent reeling. Not only has she been shagging this other bloke, but she actually likes him and fancies him. BAAAAMMMMM!

(and yes, I checked the word 'Gowl' on Google. I strongly suggest you don't)

It doesn't matter how many 'I don't give a toss' counterpunches the male throws now. When she drops the fact that she's been nobbing Billy Big-Chest behind his back, this contest is over. The only thing missing from this row was the male bellowing out a deeply personal admittance in front of the entire world (such as "I CRIED when you said you had that miscarrage and then I found out you were lying, you BITCH!"), but I doubt we'll ever see anything as magnificent as this. In daylight, too. With a pushchair.

Sam: more tax please, Mr Brown

2009-04-22T18:15:00.004+01:00

Today Gordon Brown announced an increased tax rate of 50% for Britain’s top earners. At least from my house, you can hear the sound of one hand clapping, which is all I can do after my stroke.

I’m pleased to report that, from my experience, the NHS is alive and working well. I’m certainly happy with every single penny in tax that I’ve paid towards it. In the past, when I thought of the NHS, the first things that jumped to mind were MRSA, waiting lists and overpaid doctors, but now I think of value for money and hope that Mr Brown will tax me more and give the money to the NHS.

My NHS story so far: I had a massive stroke and after we called an ambulance, it was there in 10 minutes. They took me straight to a specialist stroke hospital and into emergency brain surgery. I went through enough MRI scanners to make NASA jealous. They also gave me a new wonder drug which minimised the damage.

In my experience, there were plenty of doctors around, the nurses were really nice and even the food was actually bearable. Now, after a month of intensive rehabilitation, I can walk again and I have a team of experts who come to my home and are helping me get back to work.

Without tax and the NHS, I would have no todger to talk about now. So I say hurrah for the NHS and hurrah for higher taxes.

Sam Update: He's OUT!

2009-04-19T22:04:00.004+01:00

Oh yes. I have exceptional news to impart about my main dog, Mr VR: he came out of hospital on Friday, and is back home with his lady friend. He dropped me the following message today;

Hurrah ! At home first night was good also can make it up and DOWN the stairs with Jane keeping an eye on me wonderful beyond words to be home Sam

Obviously, there is still a lot of work to do before he's back on form, but he's keen to get back on the big sexy Blog-Horse as soon as he can. Until then, may he enjoy as many back-to-back episodes of Jeremy Kyle and Trisha that he can humanly stand, and me and Dan will try to resume as normal a service as possible.

'Mr Sex': The 'Finger in the Gob' move

2009-04-15T00:29:00.002+01:00

Every chap who has gone out upon the spree and has got lucky knows this one; you're chatting a lady up, and it's going well. Incredibly well. So well, in fact, that she leans over, takes your hand, and flashes the ultimate green light; your finger in her gob. And, as we all know, she's not doing it to get a bit of masticated crisp out of her back teeth. It's such a brilliant move; without speaking, without drawing attention to herself, and without going overboard about it, she's saying "I want to cut myself a slice of your Sex-Cake"

All well and good, but here's what I want to know, and I'm hoping our intelligent and open-minded female readership can enlighten me on this; what can we do in return? Putting aside the obvious whimpering, or talking inappropriate, bud-nipping, scary filth, I can only think of one counter-move; getting her hand, shoving her thumb through her index and middle finger, and then licking at it like a dog at its own bits. And that seems really complicated and wrong.

So step lively, ladies, and tell us all what we should be doing. Please.

Danonymous Dan: A bit rusty

2009-04-14T23:42:00.002+01:00

Just a quick one…thought I‘d share with you something that made me chuckle.

I spent the other evening at a theatre improvisation class in Balham called ‘Hoopla’ which was, as usual, very enjoyable. It’s helpful for the stand-up comedy I do and also socially good fun as generally everybody who attends is really nice.

This evening there was a girl who was a journalist for a major red-top British paper. I used to work as a journalist (and then later as a PR), and we got chatting about shared experiences. Having had a couple of drinks, I was perhaps a bit more forthcoming than I would normally be and said; ‘Hey, I write for a blog called Todger Talk…’

Now evidently my ‘talking to girls’ skill was somewhat tipsy, because I pulled a trick worthy Gareth from the Office; taking out my iPhone and showing her my post on circumcision.

She read two paragraphs, put the phone down and said, “ I don’t want read any more” then didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night.

Everyone’s a critic...

'Mr Sex': The Official Todger Talk Easter-Related Sex Tip

2009-04-10T12:21:00.002+01:00

1) Buy one of those boxes of Cadburys Creme Eggs.

2) Unwrap the first one.

3) Bite the top off.

4) Remove all of the fondant creme yolky bit using your tongue.

5) Repeat with the remaining five.

6) Go down to shops, and repeat stages 1-5 over and over again

Congratulations. You have just improved your oral sex technique. All you need to do is find a woman who doesn't mind double chins or pustule-ridden complexions, and then wonder that no advertising executive has ever clocked that going down on Cadbury's Creme Eggs is the male version of this. Happy Easter. See you next week.

Danonymous Dan: Smeg Off!

2009-04-09T09:07:00.003+01:00

It’s cleaner? It’s more aesthetically pleasing? What the fuck? I had an argument with somebody recently about what was better – circumcised or not?

My view is rather simple. It is a cock. It has two purposes: pissing and fucking. As long as it accomplishes both of those tasks adequately then there is no reason to lop the skin off the end of the poor blighter.

Advocates of foreskin removal – excluding religious mutilation, for a moment – seem to think that when men like myself peel back the foreskin, hulking great chunks of man-cheese drop to the floor and bounce around the bathroom like oversized mini-Babybels. This is lop-ist propaganda at its worst: the cleanliness argument is lie; no man’s commando should go into battle without his balaclava.

I will admit occasionally you might find a bit of smegma – but I’ll let you all into a secret… we can wash it off! Just think of the pain and money that could have been saved if religious zealots knew that smegma could be removed with soap and water. If a guy finds any (medical conditions not withstanding), its usually after having not washed for a couple of days. So ladies, unless you have a penchant for fucking tramps, you’re unlikely to come across any massive build-ups of man curd. But if you do, you can look on it as an early warning system – he’s a dirty bastard and you shouldn’t want to fuck him anyway.

There are some pretty ludicrous myths used to push circumcision, including: guys can last longer in bed; its better for your immune system; its advised by health centres; and let us not forget that, despite creating them (and being perfect and incapable of making a mistake), God doesn’t like them! I won’t list all the myths but if you want to have a read take a look at this.

Society seems far more at home with the idea of various viscous vaginal fluids being emitted throughout the different stages of the menstrual cycle. Nobody suggests a surgical procedure to stop the naturally occurring discharge: you are simply told to wash. (I appreciate there are some absolute fucktards who advocate female circumcision in places around this earth; that is a whole other blog)

My girlfriend admits she was ‘surprised’ when she saw my penis because she was expecting me to be circumcised because such a massive proportion of American males get the chop. I think I was the first ever adult male she had seen with a foreskin. A friend of hers, who lived in England for a year, admitted she had found the sight of and uncircumcised cock disgusting when she first saw it – lets face it, neither version is going to win a beauty contest – but disgusting just because it’s wearing a hat? That’s just penis-ist!

Every guy has had that inexpert tug job from a girlfriend – the one where she treats it like a mongoose killing a snake. I can only imagine how painful that would be with no foreskin to act as slack while she attempts to yank the spitting cobra’s head off.

I’m sure it’s not an issue many women give that much thought too: it’s either there, or it isn’t. But from what I can see, the more severe the circumcision (there are different levels of ‘close’) the more painful it can be for the man in later life. Considering that it is basically a permanent thing (there are groups of men attempting to regrow their foreskins), I think all people should be allowed to make up their own mind, which means waiting until they’re 16, at least.

A friend of mine who is a journalist always says that each article needs a pay-off – a sentence which sums up the article or blog in a pithy and/or amusing way. Here's mine! It’s nob-cheese; stop mutilating children!

'Mr Sex': India Rubber

2009-04-08T00:28:00.006+01:00

Forgive me if you've already seen this (because I'm always that person who gets this sort of thing last), but I had to share. We all know that everything is better when it's been Bollywoodized, and this condom awareness video proves it. Shitting hell, if they had shown this at my school, there would have been no pissed-off 15 year-old girls pushing prams around the shopping precinct at all. Mainly because the sight of giant Absolut bottles with faces running up to us and wanting to be our friends for seven whole minutes would have scared the living shit out of us.

Something for the ladies # 28

2009-04-07T17:28:00.003+01:00

Ladies: If there's ever been anything about men you've wanted to know but were afraid to ask, or wanted a male viewpoint on a certain relationship niggle you're going through, drop an email to us at todger dot talk @ googlemail dot com. We shall pick one out and answer it to the best of our capabilities.

This week's question...

Anonymous writes: Hi guys - I have been reading your blog for a long time and have a bit of a problem I could use your help with. I was in a long term relationship which went up the Swannee, and have since met someone else who is great - but he is really into oral sex and I am not. Don't get me wrong, I really enjoy going down on him - but do not want him to reciprocate. Unfortunately, this is something he really enjoys and although he is accepting of my issues (I've had kids and am not comfortable with a face-to-fanny situation!), it is still something he'd really like to do. What do you suggest?

'Mr Sex' says: Before I say anything else, I feel the need to say that 'face-to-fanny situation' is my favourite new term, and I intend to drop it in conversation at some point this weekend. Thank you.

To be honest, this is a bastard of a problem for a man to address, so expect a lot of dancing about a range of subjects. Speaking as someone who has never actually given birth, I obviously can't provide the full picture, but speaking as someone who has knocked about with a saucy Mam or two, I know what an exceptionally hot potato it can be for both parties. But I'm not sure that's entirely the real issue here.

From a male point of view, I could bang on all day about the subject, but I'll keep it brief and zone in on, er, your bits. I don't how long it's been since you've had kids, or whether you like being noshed in the past, but it's obvious that you're not feeling as genitally tip-top as you did before. Now, I could sit here behind a laptop and say "Ah, come on, love, don't be silly, there's nowt wrong with you, let him get his mouth round you" all day, but that's not going to help matters one little bit. If you're not confident, you're not confident, and there's nothing I can do to change that. That has to come from you.

Actually, if you ask me, the coming-out-of-a-long-term-relationship element might be more of an issue than you think. You've obviously have been comfortable being naked with someone else, where the pair of you were used and had grown accustomed to each others flaws. All of a sudden, New Bloke comes along, and you go through the excitement - and insecurities - of a new relationship, where sex is firmly back on the table.

Basically, you're out of your comfort zone and it sounds to me that you may be having issues that you're being perused - and possibly judged - as a shaggable sliver of woman again. I think this one really has to be lobbed over to the womenfolk of TT for a proper answer, but as someone who prefers giving over receiving, I can imagine your new chap must be champing at the bit to get stuck in there, and probably feels a bit guilty that he can't do for you what you're doing for him. But he's going to have to hold back and let you take your time.

Readers of TT - er, help...