G is for G-Spot

So tonight my subject is the G-spot which, in my opinion, which would be more aptly named the Z-spot because I've heard on the Turley grapevine that many women are prone to falling asleep or dying from boredom whilst their man is searching for it. (Especially if he's also looking at the football results - see my F for foreplay post.)

Now I am not suggesting that all males are cack-handed at foreplay and finding the G-spot. On the contrary, I am sure there's at least half a dozen men out there who know what they're doing. And if any of you ladies know where they are please let the rest of us know and then we can all form an orderly queue.

To be fair to the male species, I admit it is well known that the G-spot is pretty elusive. Some say it doesn't even exist. All I can say is that after having given birth to three strapping sons there's more chance of me winning the lottery or losing half my body weight in a week than there is of finding my G-spot. My vagina is like a black hole. There's probably a couple of lost spaceships up there. In fact, my gynecologist once sent a search party up there to look for my cervix. Sadly, even though they were armed with flashlights and a week's rations they didn't find their way back for over a month.

You know, recently I've been wondering how I'm going to support myself in old age as writing books doesn't pay and I've been a stay-at-home for years so have zero pension. I've been trying to think creatively about how I can give my income a boost.

So far, all I've managed to come up with is hiring out my vagina as a backdrop for the next Star Wars movie.

I reckon if George Lucas filmed some really epic space battles in my vagina I could patent it and then make a pitch for the Star Trek movies as well. I could even set up my own stage production company. I'd probably call it Black Hole Productions.

Anyway, it's time for me to hit the sack so to end today's post on a postive note my advice is:

If you're looking for your G-spot you might as well give up and eat a packet of chocolate chip cookies instead. It will be a lot more satisfying and you can put on your headphones whilst you're eating them and block out the sound of your partner switching channels on the TV.

"One more take and I think we've got it!

F is for Foreplay

This is going to be a very short post.

(As befitting the average amount of foreplay a typical woman receives.)

So... foreplay. It's a bit of a sensitive subject. But I'm not one to shy away from sensitive subjects so I've done some research on it. (About the average length of a foreplay session so I leave you to come to your own conclusions on my diligence.)  And I have come to the following conclusion:

1. Women don't get enough of it.

That's it.

Oh yes... and sometimes it is a bit messy.

So my top five tips for men to improve their lovelife and satisfy their women are:

1. When a woman says "Don't stop doing that" it should not be wrongly interpreted that she means you should stop and look-up the football scores.

2.When a woman passionately whispers "Oh George you're so gorgeous" and your name is not George don't be bitter, be grateful. Your partner's fantasy means you'll be able to get back to Match of the Day before half-time is over.

3. Personal hygiene in their partner is very important to a woman. Going to bed wearing the same underwear you've worn all day (with the skid marks on) is not going to turn her on.

4. Never trim your nasal hair in view of your woman and never, ever trim your nasal hair in bed.

5. Never take your phone to bed with you and never answer a call from your boss while your woman is feeling horny because she will never, ever forget you choose your boss over her.

"It's my boss. He want to know the football scores."

Do you have any tips to improve foreplay? Leave them in the comments!

E is for Extended Engineering Works

Today it is time to talk about a subject that will particularly resonate with readers in the UK where the words "Extended Engineering Works" or a signpost that reads "Delays expected until August 2018" can instantly induce suicidal thoughts, mass hysteria or the kind of quiet British resignation which makes foreign espionage an attractive proposition.

You see, whether you travel by rail or by car, getting around the UK requires the sort of endurance and initiative that in other countries qualify you for the armed forces. However, in the UK the average Brit knows that to travel into London by train is a test of endurance like no other. In Germany they are proud to claim they their trains run on time: in the UK we are proud if we make it into work without having a seizure. Only in the UK do the words "leaves on the track," "overhead power cable failure" and "flooded tracks" induce such doom and gloom.

But, of course, worse than any leaves, snow or rain on the tracks are "Extended Engineering Works". This statement invariably means somewhere on the rail network there is a bit of track missing and nobody knows where so the management have sent a party of ten men clad in fluorescent jackets equipped with a forked stick out on a walking party in an attempt to locate it. In the meantime, while the workman try to detect the missing track passengers on their morning commute to London can expect to be:

A) Rerouted via Aberdeen

B) Held up at signals at Watford Junction for three hours on a train with no buffet and where a small stream of urine runs from the beneath the toilet door and pools just in the spot where you are forced to stand because the train has only four carriages, it is peak commuting hours and there are no seats.

C) Rerouted via Aberdeen and held up at Watford Junction for three hours and forced to overhear the conversation of German tourists bragging about German efficiency and how their trains always run on time for the entire *ucking journey.

Now remember you heard the following gossip here first - I have heard on the Turley grapevine that the next Bear Grylls TV show will be called Mission Survival: The Challenge of Network Rail. Apparently, the first episode will be where Bear attempts to make it into London from Lands End in less than 24 hours with no food or drink whilst wearing a pinstripe suit and equipped with only a laptop with a dead battery and a phone without a 4G connection. He will also be hampered by the fact that he will be accompanied by his mother-in-law.

Unfortunately, it is not just only our rail system that is flawed in the UK but also the roadwork. I do a lot of travelling and I know that a typical journey follows this pattern:

You are speeding down the motorway at 90 70mph on a glorious morning for driving under the false impression you will get to your appointment on time when all of a sudden the traffic begins to slow. Signs that were not there the previous day have appeared overnight: "Expect Delays until August 2018", "Average 40mph Speed Check" (*uck) and eventually signs directing all the motorway traffic into one lane. The traffic slowly grinds to an agonising 5mph and rows upon rows upon rows of orange cones are laid over the motorway like onlookers at a funeral procession. The traffic edges slowly forward for another thirty minutes and all the time there is not a single workman, digger or even a solitary shovel to be seen. The only break from monotony and frustration is observing the Sunday drivers having a picnic on the hard shoulder, the lorry driver taking a leak in an upturned cone and other commuters less patient than you screaming into their phones and tearing their hair out.

Then, suddenly, with no forewarning, the cones end, the speed restriction stops and the cars ahead of you race off into the distance. Then you too put your foot down and race off whilst uttering every obscenity under the sun because all the time you were queuing you have not seen any evidence of maintenance on the roads; not a single workman, not a single digger or even a solitary shovel....

Now, as usual, I have applied my analytical skills to the whereabouts of the missing motorway maintenance men and I've come to this conclusion:

They have been loaned to Network Rail and are out looking for the missing train track alongside the Network Rail workers. No doubt, the Transport minister thinks if they use double the quantity of forked sticks they will discover the missing track a lot quicker.

Personally, I don't believe a word the Transport minister says on any issue. I reckon he's actually a German agent.

"Not more bloody cones!"

D is for Deities, Demigods and Dunces

*WARNING*. THIS POST CONTAINS SLEAZY AND CRASS POETRY IF YOU ARE A FAN OF JOHN DONNE LEAVE NOW AND NEVER COME BACK.

So today I am going to be devoting my D post to two extremes of beings: The Deity or Demigod and The Dunce.

Now I am not going to pretend I am learned and studied the classics and know all about Greek and Roman mythology because I don't.  And I am way too lazy to bother trying to look them up at 11 pm on a Tuesday evening with less than hour before I miss the A to Z deadline. So I'd thought I'd talk about deities and demigods in modern terms. So, after having thought for about a minute long and hard about how I might define deities and demigods in terms of a modern day being or likeness, I came up with this example.

George Clooney.

Who basically is what we describe as "lush" in the UK with the added bonus that he can do no wrong. (Except get married.)

Now as befitting Gorgeous George's godlike status I have written him an ode:

Oh George how lovely art thou eyes
Even tastier than French fries
You ass is pretty good too
On it I could munch and chew
Or maybe lick off some fondue
So call me if you want a saucy English chick
Who likes a red hot... guy.

Pretty poetical stuff eh? Well maybe not. But what you do you expect at 11pm?

Blimey, I think I'm on a creative roll now. That's what the pressure of this A to Z thing does to me. It sets the old brain cells firing. I think I shall write an ode to Chris Hemsworth now.

Oh Chris how muscular your biceps are
Even tastier than a candy bar
Your butt is pretty pert too
On it I could bite and nibble
Maybe even have a dribble
So write to me if you fancy a sweet English Rose
Who writes some awesome, fantastic poetry odes rhymes prose

So that's deities and demigods defined. Now onto dunces.

Well that's easy. Anyone who works at a British Telecommunications (BT) call centre!

And yes BT is my favourite pet hate. I've had years of emotional abuse from BT which has been compounded by the fact that they have recently installed fibre optics in our village but (and it's a very big but) it stops about four houses down from us. So I must suffer the agonizing pain of slow broadband for probably another 2 years or more because apparently they are not even going to considering installing it for my end of the street until 2017.

How unfair is that! Four doors down my friend's children get to play their games on super-fast connections and down here I can barely fire up my PC without a warning sign flashing up on my PC that says:

 "WARNING IMMINENT BT FAILURE. CLOSE DOWN YOUR PC NOW OR RISK STROKE AND HEART FAILURE."

So that's it for today. If you've got this far well done and there's still enough time to pick up a copy of my short story Fantasia (which is whole load better than the trash I write on this blog) for free on Kindle. The offer ends approx midnight PST on 5th April. (See sidebar for link)

See you tomorrow!

C is for the Christmas Male Office Dancer

So today I am going to talk about a type of man women rarely see: the male office dancer.  In fact, I am going to be quite specific I am going to talk about the Christmas Male Office Dancer which is an even rarer beast. Now Christmas Male Office Dancers are very peculiar creatures and are slightly different to the Male Wedding Dancer and the Male Birthday Dancer in that the Christmas Male Office Dancer is provided with free beer by his employer as opposed to free beer by his mates or relatives. The thought of the Christman Male Office Dancer’s boss footing the drinks bill always tempts the Male Office Dancer into excessive over-indulgence resulting in a devil-may-care attitude. This, in turn, leads to the Christmas Male Office Dancer watering the office plants with vodka martinis, photocopying his arse and sending it to the MD from his boss’s email address, and vomiting in his boss’s wastepaper basket. But, worse than all of these horrors, his over-indulgence leads to what The Christmas Male Office Dancer is famed for – non-stop boogying.

There are a number of common features to the three phases in the Christmas Male Office Dancer’s routine. These are:

Phase One - The Slightly Inebriated Stage

Arms to side, fingers pointing like a cowboy in a wild-west shoot-out, mild hip thrusting. Usually attempting to move rhythmically but actually inflicting heavy bruising on his partner's feet or, if approaching the second stage, inflicting partial blindness. Miming (badly) to I was made for Dancin' by Leif Garrett, Dancing Queen by Abba or, if you're really unlucky, Contact by Edwin Starr. If the opening bars of Contact result in the Male Office Dancer clapping and grinning like the Cheshire Cat it is advisable to:

a) take cover behind the filing cabinets

b) secure the windows and doors,

c) ring for an ambulance.


Phase Two - The Wholly Inebriated Stage

Legs jerking all over the place, arms waving up and down aka John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, intense hip grinding and thrusting. Frequent screams, whoops and winking whilst rubbing crotch and whispering incoherent beer babble in the nearest woman’s ear. This babble is usually an attempt to get a telephone number or, if the Male Office Dancer is married, a plea for sex in the rear seat of his car – although it sounds more like a precursor to a heavy bout of vomiting. The opening notes of Thriller, Last Christmas or Hi Ho Silver Lining will result in the Male Office Dancer giving rapturous applause or leaping up and down like a pneumatic drill or (worst case scenario) should he have taken a toilet break, running back from the bathroom screaming "This is my favourite song ever!" and grabbing the nearest person. Unfortunately, this is usually either the woman from HR, the lesbian girlfriend of the woman from HR or his boss. He will then pull his victim to the centre of the dance floor and perform wild sexual gyrations whilst telling them that he loves them and wants to have their babies. This usually signifies:

 a) the end of his marriage

 b) the end of his career

 c) a spell in rehab

 d) All three.

Phase Three - The Totally Legless Stage

There is very little dancing in this stage which is characterized by vague head movements, mouth opening and closing like a fish, and saliva dribbling from the corner of the mouth. At some point, the Male Office Dancer will collapse onto the floor with other Male Office Dancers of a similar disposition. The sign of impending group Male Office Dancers’ unconsciousness is when they all form a long chain sitting behind each other, legs apart, and rock from side-to-side to the tune of Oops Upside Your Head by The Gap Band. As they start to sway and wave their arms to the beat of the song the hypnotic effect of the motion takes effect and, one by one, they keel over and slip into a deep coma. If this happens it is advisable to:

 a) remove all their car keys

 b) turn off the music

 c) tread carefully towards the exit.

So there you have it: the Christmas Male Office Dancer. A rare but dangerous breed of man. Almost as deluded as Air Guitar Man. (See my letter A!)

Unfortunately, it's not only men who affected by Oops Upside Your Head. Check out this video!

B is for Balls and Breasts.

Firstly, in case any of you are super sensitive types, I want to be clear that this post is primarily about balls - as in footballs and circular objects and not the UK slang meaning of balls which is men's testicles which, let's face it, aren't really round - more like droopy bags of turkey giblets.

Now in my time as a Housewife Extraordinaire, it has come to my attention that men seem to have an affinity with balls, or indeed anything round in shape, including footballs, snooker balls, beer glasses, marbles, DVDs, women's bottoms (regrettably, this doesn't include mine as it has become somewhat elongated over the past decade) and, of course...breasts.

Now us gals know that all men are particularly stupid about round things. Especially breasts. Which is why even the least intelligent women have deduced that if they fill their breasts with large amounts of rounded silicone they will become instantly more desirable to the opposite sex. Personally, I think stuffing your bra with cotton wool is an easier way to attract men. It's also a lot cheaper than plastic surgery and has the added bonus that you can safely remove it after your man comes home from the pub because by then he will believe anything you tell him including that Tom Cruise is 6ft 6in, the Pope is a woman and that you are Pamela Anderson's sister.

Yep, so men like all things round. Breasts are their favourite circular objects of course, but balls come a close second. Men cannot stop playing with balls: footballs, basketballs, soccer balls, bowling balls, cricket balls, tennis balls, the dog's balls...They're ALWAYS fiddling with them. Even on their desks they have a squidgy ball that they play with every time they remember they can't multi-task and there's nothing they like better for Christmas than a football unless it's one of those round soaps on a rope. (This is so they can drop it in the bath and have lots of fun finding it.)

Basically, men spend hours and hours kicking balls, throwing balls and watching balls. Sometimes they play with their own balls and sometimes it's other men's balls. Sometimes they even have the audacity to play with a stranger's balls - although that's usually only if they come across one lost in the park. 

Men don't care what type of balls they play with just so long as they get to have a play. Sometimes they play with big balls, sometimes small balls and, yes, sometimes they even like to play with sticky balls. (Which is gross but, I suppose, better than slippery balls.)

I often wonder to myself why men haven't developed a game called "fingerball" instead of "football". If they played fingerball then they'd have the perfect excuse to play their balls all the time. I think it's pathetic to see men trying to deny their love of balls by kicking them or heading them or bouncing them off their chests - so they might as well come clean and play handball. You see, we women know the truth - men love their balls and they ALL secretly want to go to bed at night with their balls tucked up close beside them.

The ultimate way for a man to relief his stress is too squeeze his own balls.

Okay, I want to be fair here. I'm not saying women don't like round things too because we do. In fact, I particularly like a number of round things. However, I think my list of round things is a little more discerning. In no particular order here are my top five round things:

1. Pound coins. (They have a very satisfying feel about them and if they just happen to be in Chris Hemsworth's pocket I'd be even more satisfied.)

2. Chocolate Footballs. (The ONLY kind of footballs that require my undivided attention.)

3. Chocolate chip muffins. (Even more satisfying than chocolate footballs.)

4. Round tins. (Containing Quality Street, Roses or perhaps Celebrations.)

5. Rings. (Preferably set with diamonds. But I'll also accept rings set with rubies, sapphires and emeralds.)

What are your favourite round things? Let me know!

A is for Air Guitar

Okay, so today I am going to talk about air guitars.

So I looked up "air guitar" in the Turley English Dictionary and it gave the following definition:

An imaginary guitar (instrument) played by Homo Stupidus, a subcategory of the male Homo Sapien species.  Air guitar is commonly played by the Homo Stupidus during a mid-life crisis but it can also affect the pubescent male and the geriatric male of the species. The early-onset of airguitaritis (air-g-ti-tis) in the pubescent male usually leads to severe complications in adult life including rheumatism, earache, marriage breakdown and a reputation as a complete twat. Late diagnosis of airguitaritis usually leads to incarceration in a specialist mental health clinic.

Homo Stupidus wearing his standard Friday night attire. Sadly, the love-heart boxers do not attract females only other air-guitarists which can lead to worrying displays of male bonding.

Now,  for all you ladies out there who have had the misfortune to marry a gentleman with an air guitar fetish let me give you my Top Ten Tips for dealing with this unwholesome situation:

1. Divorce your Homo Stupidus. (You know it makes sense.)

2. Have him incarcerated in an asylum on the grounds of mental instability and emotional abuse.

3 Jump up and down on his air guitar whilst singing "Beat it" by Michael Jackson.

4. Send a dubious brown package to Eric Clapton. It does not have to contain Semtex (which is preferable) but just the thought of blowing up Eric Clapton will make you feel a whole lot better.

5. Start performing imaginary cooking, imaginary housekeeping and imaginary ironing. Air-ironing
is particularly effective as a way to disarm the working Homo-Stupidus.

6. Ask your Homo Stupidus if he is also performing imaginary sex because you haven't had an orgasm since 1993.

7. Ask your Homo Stupidus is he would like his air-guitar restringing. If he says "Yes" mark that down in your little black book so your attorney can cite it as evidence in the divorce proceedings.

8. Write a kiss and tell article for The Daily Mail. "My Life Of Hell With A Man Who Preferred His Air Guitar Over Sex" will propel you to instant fame and fortune. You'll be commissioned for your autobiography, a film and make a whole stack of cash. If you're really clever and manage to get an imaginary wizard into your biography you will become even more famous.

9. Stick his head in the oven.

10. Put on your earmuffs and tell him he is not playing loud enough. While he performs even more wild air guitar manoeuvres video him and then post the clip on YouTube with the caption "Man Found Wandering In Borneo Jungle Seeks Mate". Also tweet the footage using the hash tags #fuckingbonkers #saveme

So there you have it. A is for air guitar - accompanied by some sound and ever thoughtful advice from Mrs T.  See you tomorrow!