Marry, Shag, Kill....

It's a bit of a liberty to say it, but I think I can speak for most men when I tell you some things about sex, specifically about the way we men approach it compared to how the female persona does. As a caveat I must say that I can't talk for gay people.

The fly in the proverbial here is that I haven't quite figured out the workings of the female mind just yet, though I'm close, perhaps a mere couple of hundred years away. But I do know what we men think about, when we're not pondering on cars or pretending to be intellectual.

For men, sex (of the hetero variety) is simple. It's binary, black or white, or often both, and it works like this. We see a woman and our brain has two options:

1. Do we fancy her?

2. Do we not fancy her?

This might be seeing as in glancing at her or seeing as in meeting, getting to know her and such like.

After answering the first two questions the man will then find out if the lovely lady is available, not necessarily the same thing as whether she's married or unmarried to some, and of course make that quick calculation about whether oneself is available. ( a varied and uncharted minefield I know!)

Given the correct combination of permutations and bang, the man will try, in his usually inept and unsuccessful way, to have sex with the woman. It's a fairly straightforward process, simple and uncomplicated, like us.

Once, C asked me what happens when I see a woman who I think is cute, say at the supermarket. I looked at her with puzzlement.

"What do you mean what happens?" I asked, with a proper man's what on earth are you talking about look on my face.

"Well what do you do, what happens next?"

"What happens next?" I asked incredulously. "What do you mean what happens next."

"Well how do you approach her?" she asked.

"Approach her?" My mind was well and truly boggled.

"Nothing happens of course, we just go off and find the aisle with the cold meats (or whatever we're shopping for at the time)."

All men will understand that. No women will. Weird but true.

Things however, on the female side of the fence are another matter.

Men, listen to me, for this is priceless information that might help you at some point in the future. Women have all sorts of different levels of attraction that goes on and it goes on in their...............head. Seriously.

Women can fancy a man, can find him attractive, good looking or whatever, yet not want to sleep with him. I don't know the whys and wherefores but trust me on this.

Another conversation the other day with someone (a girl) went something like this:

"Of course you fancied him, you told me many times" said I.

"No I didn't" said she.

"Yes you did, you told me, you said how you were after him for ages but he never fancied you."

"Ah, I had a crush on him, but I didn't fancy him, I wouldn't have slept with him."

"You what?" I said and decided not to pursue.

You can imagine how this sort of information is just not processable to the mind of an average man. I merely looked at her with an expression on my face that Hugh Laurie whilst sucking a lemon would have been proud of.

They have all sorts of different classifications for men too. There are men who they want to marry, to have a fling with, to sleep with just once, all different of course, never would all of those criteria be met by one man. There are famous men who women drool over but wouldn't touch with a bargepole because of, would you believe this, their personality. I kid you not.

Then there are ugly funny men, who can apparently get any woman to do anything for them. What's all that about?

And all of those things are what made me realise the other day that that game; marry, shag, kill, you know the one, can only have been invented by a woman, possibly a gang of them. For, had it been thought up by one of us, then it would have been called, quite simply;

Shag.

What's Sex Like.....

....for ugly people?

Fuck off. Yes, you. The person who searched for that phrase and ended up here on my blog.

I don't know. I don't plan to find out either.

Ask Dinidu or Blacker. They'll know.

Hmmm... I might be wrong about Dinidu, not because he's not ugly mind.

Gaydar, Drums and Sri Lankan Mothers

This is a slightly awkward but necessary thing to confess. You might know me and think I'm talking rubbish, you might not know me and think that I'm being boastful or you might just think I'm talking a load of tosh.

The fact is that, since I was about sixteen, I've often found that gay chaps like me. And by "like" I mean "like" not just 'like'. I don't know why this is. Perhaps they like the cute little Asian boy thing, maybe I flirt when I talk or it might be my collection of George Michael T shirts and penchant for dressing up like a fireman when I go to nightclubs.

The details aren't important. What matters is that this is the case and some time ago I accepted the baton and now carry it with the responsibility it deserves. I've found myself wishing I were gay sometimes too, purely for the way in which gay chaps can befriend women and make them want to spend all their time with them.

All women want a gay best friend, the negative also being the positive; that said fellow won't be trying to jump the woman at every available opportunity and so the woman can relax without feeling threatened. My knowledge of women is limited, I'm a man after all, but I suspect that all of them secretly harbour a desire to be the one to convert their gay friend, to make him finally realise that women are the real thing.

Often though I've found myself being chatted up by a bloke, something that, truth be told, I quite like. Thinking about it, it's probably because I never get chatted up by women. But, when the man chat starts I tend to go along with it for a while before revealing that I'm almost entirely heterosexual. It's fun and harmless and I reckon my gaydar is fairly well tuned and able to spot the difference between casual chat between hetero men and a chat up scenario from a good distance.

As far as sexuality is concerned I think I'd be classed as anti homophobic. I must stress that to you now.

Last Sunday I went to a local pub where I'd agreed to meet my parents. It's a fantastic riverside pub that, on a Sunday evening, has truly world class musicians playing a relatively low key jazz session. I go fairly often as it gives me the opportunity to watch some of the best drummers in the country if not the world (really I'm not exaggerating there) in a close setting.

This week I saw Ian Thomas play. Unless you're a drummer you probably haven't heard of him but he's one of the first call guys that many big name artistes use all the time. I've seen him play on TV with Eric Clapton more times than I can recall, with Tom Jones and with just about everyone you can think of, so to watch him close up, to chat about drum stuff with him and see his every move is truly a privilege.

My 'rents, who go to this jazz session almost every week, have built up a little circle of likeminded friends there. Oldish people who like music and all look like trainspotters (retired).

There we were on Sunday. The band had finished the first set and I was enduring another round of a game me and my Mum play. The game is called "name the drums" and involves her asking me what the various drums in a drum kit are called. It always starts the same way

"Rhythmic, tell me one more time, what's the drum to his right called again?"

"That's the floor tom, Mum."

"Right, got it, and what are those ones in front of him?"

"Well those are toms too, but not called floor toms as they're usually mounted from a rack."

"What's a rack?"

I then explain that.

"But I can't see one"

"Well there isn't one, but they're still called rack toms, or mounted toms"

"So which are the tom toms then?"

"Those are" say I pointing to the toms.

"But you said they're toms"

"They are, the full name is tom toms but we usually just say toms"

"Right, got it."

We play this game every time me, my Mum and a drum kit are in the same room. As you can imagine, what with my love of all things drummy and the fact that my mother is of the Sri Lankan variety, which fundamentally means that she stalks her children and rarely listens to them, that also means we play the game a hell of a lot.

I wouldn't mind if we had the conversation once or twice but it gets taxing after a certain point, particularly when I know that if the specific drum kit had been dressed in a Liverpool football kit then she would have remembered every last detail about it. The worst thing a chap can do, faced with one of these situations, is to confront the Lankan mother. That's stupid, pointless and akin to taking on a herd of wild elephants protecting a baby when you're armed with only a flimsy bikini and a Dairylea triangle.

I confronted her.

"Mum who plays left back for Liverpo...?"

Before I could finish the sentence she'd answered and told me the name of the bloke before.

"So why is it that you can remember things like that, but not details about drum kits?"

I'd prehandled her usual response; that with getting older she has trouble remembering things and I shouldn't get angry with her for it. I was on the verge of a resounding victory, by using a tactic I'd never used before. Things were looking good. She was stumped but couldn't resist trying to win.

"If you asked me a question about ----------(insert medical term here) would you remember the answer?" she responded.

"Well yes, if I was interested enough to ask you I think I would actually." I returned with confidence.

I looked at her and saw the glint of a tear in her eye. Oh shit I thought, she's going to do the half crying emotional blackmail thing again. There is no way to beat that, it's like playing Civil Aircraft Top Trumps when I was a kid and having the 747. You just say "490 passengers and you've won". These days I guess the A380 would beat that but that's another story.

Everyone knows it, once a Sri Lankan mother turns on the tears you've lost. And it's a loss without honour.

Then, as victory was about to be declared, which usually involves my Dad wondering why my Mum is crying and what I've done to upset her, a bloke who looked like he was Freddie Mercury trying to act a bit camp dressed in cycling gear strolled flounced into the picture. It was apparent that the chap was not only a friend of Dorothy but also a friend of my Mum.

They chatted for a bit, then she introduced him to me.

"T, this is my son Rhythmic. Rhythmic this is T" said she. The tears had entirely disappeared.

T and I shook hands. I swear I caught him lick his lips, just for a split second. He glanced at my left hand and I clocked him as he clocked the lack of ring on it. We conversed for a while. T was as camp as a good few rows of tents. I know that campness doesn't necessarily equal gayness but I'd have bet large amounts of money on this one.

I suppose I was a little bit flirty with him, exchanging stories of where we live, when I was going on holiday, my favourite Scissor Sisters costume, the usual stuff. I deliberately didn't mention that I have a girlfriend or even my kids, just for a bit of a laugh. Then, some way into the conversation, I got cold feet. Then I quickly said something like

"I'mgoingwithmykidsandmygirlfriendwillbetheretooandIlikewomen" to make sure he got the message. Confidence and strength are all well and good but, when you break you break. A chap can hold out without peeing for so long but once he's passed the tipping point there's no turning back. And I'd tipped. Or turned. I hadn't peed though.

He ambled off into the distance as he lost interest in me quicker than my lead guitarist did the last time I tried to tell him about the wood that my snare drum is made of. He'd made some utterings about it being nice to meet me but I could sense his disappointment and felt a little bit bad for him.

My Mum turned to me and whispered. She whispered in that voice that people only use when they talk about other people having cancer, that strange very open mouthed whisper that that can be both lip read and heard from about half a mile.

"I think he's gay you know. I was trying to warn you, I was trying to send you ESP messages to let you know. I think he was trying to chat you up."

I looked at her, I felt a bit guilty about the drum thing and the tears.

Yes. I know Mum. I was just having some fun.

Secretly I tutted and rolled my eyes. The second set was fabulous.

The Best Chat Up Line Ever?

I read the good Lady D's post here and was reminded of a chat up line, one that I reckon is the best one ever. Well, that's from a man's point of view, but it's well known how I'm able to virtually read the mind of almost any woman, except for the ones I've actually met of course.

It's a chat up line that I've never had the opportunity to use or try, but my feeling is that it could be the golden shower of all chat up lines, the holy grail, the one line to make all others look like the tri shaw occupying a corner in the Ferrari garage.

And frankly I don't know if I should tell you what it is. I don't know if you're up to the job, whether I can stand the thought of giving out this bit of stunningly lethal information and then sitting back with the knowledge that fellows will be out in public using it, bedding one beautiful woman after another.

It's a line that would take guts and courage for a man to use, not everyone would have the confidence to come out with it. It's the chat up line version of doing the most fantastic bungee jump; you'd just have to go for it, knowing that the rope would hold you and you'd have the best and most wonderful experience.

In fact, with some minor modification it could probably be used by men, women, gay or straight. It's so powerful that I reckon even some bloggers could use it to good effect.

What is it?

Not telling you. You can guess if you want though. Or bribe me.

Something Funny For The Weekend

The last programme in the second series of The Inbetweeners was shown here last night. It's a comedy that I think will go down as one of the Great British ones, though I wonder if it's too British to travel.

I can't embed it but have a look at the link. Java, you'll love this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G48J5ZpRbqs

Happy long weekend all.

Tiny Ickle Willies

Yes really. It's not a euphemism, nor is it a witty post about two friends I've got called William who are both well below average height. This really is a post about short penises. What exactly is the plural of penis anyhow? Maybe it's penii. Soixante Neuf, where are you? You'll know.

I was told a story about a friend of a friend of a friend who got into, ahem, a bed with an, ahem, man to find that said man had a, well you know, a two to three inch willy, when he was in a state of you know, arousal. Or, to put it a bit more bluntly for the less subtle readers; the bloke had a two to three inch cock when it was hard.

Said woman found it an awkward situation, one that she didn't know how to address. In the conversation about this there were women and men involved and the consensus among the women was that, despite all the attempts of us men to scoff and laugh at the matter, size does matter.

I've come to my own conclusion about this.

Women tell us that size doesn't matter and they mean it. But, they mean it when they're talking about a love truncheon being, say, five inches or eight inches long. You can add or subtract your own personal criteria to make the equation work, but it does work.

My theory goes on that it's the extremes that matter. The very women who say that size doesn't matter will say it with truth and conviction. However, confront them with a two inch Uncle Wiggly or a ten inch Uncle Johnston and they'll quite literally be out of their comfort zone.

The friend I told you about earlier said that she didn't really know what to do with the tiny three inch weiner. I asked her, purely for scientific reasons, what she ended up doing. Even as a man I struggle to see how a little thing like that can do a man's job. They say sex, for women, is all in the mind. That's all well and good but surely not if the fellow is sporting a weapon that's more of a handgun than a rifle, a small handgun at that.

The answer was, for her to get maximum enjoyment the best position was with him on top. This surprised me, I would have thought that it would have been better for the chap to be underneath giving the woman more control of the proceedings. No, she said, it didn't work like that. You know how shy and bashful I am at times and I must admit that I hit the edge of my comfort zone at that point and didn't pursue the matter. Unlike the short willied man I didn't want to probe further.

But I've thought about this a lot. Are there any ladies out there who can give some information on this? Have you ever been in this situation? Does size really matter?

As for me?

Well I don't have a two or three incher and I often find myself wishing for a ten incher.

Instead of this huge big thing!

Girly Books

Many years ago, when my daughters were very young, I had dreams that they would do boyish things. I suspect these dreams are normal for a father of girls, but I'm not sure on that. I would picture them playing football with me, being into cars and music and generally escewing lots of "girly" things in favour of the more masculine activities.

Now, roughly ten to twelve years later, I've succeeded in achieving my dream. If you define success as achieving nothing like you set out to do that is. Both the girls are firmly in the feminie camp. Their interest in the more boyish side of things extend to K being heavily into music and A being heavily into drums and it's highly debateable when they're "masculine" things anyway.

When I cast my mind back I do recollect that it was when they were young that I gave up on the whole idea anyway. At even pre school stage they began to play with "traditional" female toys. Things like dolls, cookers and kitchen things and the like. I noticed that they were getting much of their stimuli and the desire to play with those things from outside influences like TV and their friends.

It was all well and good me trying to get them interested in football and cars but everything they were exposed to demonstrated that they were boys' activities and that little girls should be doing other things. It was a lesson to me that the defining of traditional roles of the sexes starts so young and is hard to battle against.

Yet I'm not immune to it, as I unwittingly proved to myself the other day. I was browsing at some slighty trashy books in a shop and felt the urge to buy something that would be easy to read and gentle on my mind. If you know me you'll understand that, for something to be gentle on my mind, it's got to be pretty damn simple. A huge font, a plot that's a bit simpler that that story about the girl and the three bears and the porridge and some pictures of drums is my definition of easy reading.

I chose a couple of books and that night began to read one of them. It was a book about a family of private investigators told from the persepctive of their twenty eight year old daughter, also a private investigator. She (the narrator) is single and goes through boyfriends like a Jones goes through spliffs. The book has a story of sorts and is interlaced with details (of the emotional sort) about the many romances of the heroine. The top section of the front cover of the book is pink, the bottom section is a lighter shade of pink. The back cover is rather prettily done in the same colour scheme.

By now you may have spotted what I hadn't; it's a girls' book. Pure and simple.
I started it the night I bought it, the blurb had said it was funny, witty and full of side splitting insight. After a few chapters I'd come to the conclusion that I hadn't made up my mind yet. After a few more chapters I thought it was mildly witty but there was no need for me to wear my whale bone corset as I read it. I stuck to the regular one.

I had the girls with me one day and K, who's always interested in everything, looked at the book and grimaced.

"Dad, why are you reading this?"

"I just fancied it"

"But it's a girls' book" she said indignantly.

Her statement irked me somewhat. As if I'd go out and buy a book written for girls by mistake.

"Why do you think that?" I asked feebly, already feeling that feeling, the one where someone tells you something you'd known all along but you hadn't quite grasped it and yet, when they tell you, it's so obvious that you want to argue a bit to prove your point, particularly when it's your twelve year old daughter doing the pointing out of the obvious bit.

"Well didn't you read the blurb?"

"Of course I did, but why?"

"Well didn't you spot that the reviews are from womens' magazines? And the book's pink."

She had me there. Like a bat out of Belgium it hit me. I had bought a book written for women. It was too late though, I needed to know what was going to happen. I continued to read the book, being careful where I took it and who might see me reading it. I finished it last night and felt nothing. It had a nice happy ending, always good for my reading pleasure, but it dealt with things that men just aren't well versed in. Things like emotions, periods and undoing bras without looking.

It made me think about books and writing and target audiences. Most books are written to appeal to both sexes; male and the other one. But there are some that are written for men to read, mostly written by men. There are others that are written by women for women, like this one.

As I was saying to Frenchy the other night, it would have to be a brilliant man who could write pretending to be a woman. The likelihood is that a man writing as a woman would give away little clues as they went along, little signs that they're not as smart as they think they are.

Then again I reckon the average woman could have half her brain removed, do a couple of lines of coke and still write something that makes her sound like a highly intelligent man.

What do you think?

Helping Sex Addicts

I saw in the news recently that David Duchovny, or Fox Mulder as we know him, has recently entered a clinic to be treated for sex addiction.

How cool is that?

Wikipedia tells us that "Sexual addiction is a term used to describe the behavior of a person who has an unusually intense sex drive or obsession and addiction with sex."

But why is it that only famous people, those who have been caught dipping their soldier in other people's boiled eggs, are the ones who are diagnosed with sex addiction?

Normal chaps don't get carted off to a clinic when they're caught in a compromising position with their secretary do they?

I think I've discovered my dream job; working as a counsellor for female patients in one of these sex addicts' clinics. Obviously the way to treat these fabulously wealthy and glamorous women, many of whom would have have plastic surgery to give them perfect looking bodies, would be through a process of gradual withdrawal. They'd have to have a lot of sex and then reduce the amount they get over a period of time.

Well I'm willing to put my balls on the line, I'll step in and help the ladies, with little or no thought for myself. It's a tough job but somebody's got to do it.

I've always thought of myself as a kind and considerate chap, someone who wants to do his bit and to put others first. This would be my way of helping these poor unfortunates, of giving something back to society.

I've been sending CVs round to the clinics and am waiting for my first interview.

You'll be kept posted.

A Bit About Soixante Neuf

My new, my first and my only stalker, apart from Dinidu, goes by the name of Soixante Neuf. The more cosmopolitan among you will know that Soixante Neuf is German for a sausage and a furry cup or, as we say here in England, a 69. It's best not to say this in the local Chinese Restaurant unless you want the Chicken Chow Mein.

Soixante Neuf (whom I'll refer to as 6 from now on) has a blog. It's quite the novelty in the Sri Lankan blogosphere and each of the few posts has generated a lot of comments. Why? I hear you ask.

Because it's well written? Yes, it most definitely is. 6 has a way with words. Her tongue is most definitely her weapon. Each post is interesting and thought provoking and presented in a way that a master story teller like Chuck Norris would be proud of.

Because it's full of eye catching images? Yes again. The blog is decorated with pictures of beautiful and sexy people. Sensual black and white photographs of two women about to do some serious bean flicking, dimly lit almost abstract images of a neck about to be kissed at the same time as the custard truck is unloading at the other end of the motorway. They're all there.

But, the most fascinating thing, the thing that has caught all of our imaginations, is that each of 6's posts, of which there are confusingly 6 so far, talks about sex. 6's blog starts off with an introduction, as many things do. It would be so confusing if we started things off with saying goodbye then introduced ourselves just before walking out of the door. We'd spend the whole meeting not knowing who the other chap was for a start, or for an end.

I digress, 6's opening line, her entry into the blogosphere (as far as we know) is

"I have always been intensely curious about sex"

Bang! Now that's what I call an opening line. Guaranteed to get the attention of every red blooded male who reads the odd Sri Lankan blog. I can't be bothered to look it up but I suspect my opener on LLD was something like

"Hello, my name is Rhythmic and I play the drums and live in London."

If 6's opening line goes Bang! then mine goes pfffft, like a balloon deflating into a swamp.

Then 6 goes on to tell us, in language that is vivid and elegantly written, some of her thoughts on sex. She gets five comments, with David Blacker being straight in there with a warm hand upon her entrance.

Her second post succeeds in not failing to disappoint us. It's a delicate and sexy little number about 6 being kissed on the neck for the first time. With lines like

"And let me just say, quite appropriately: Fuck."

it continues to tantalise the male regulars on Kottu, as well as a few of the fairer sex too.

The foreplay is over by the time we get to post 3. The introductions are done, the gentle neck kissing is done and we move on to full scale hide the sausage in the bushes stuff. It's no holds barred as 6 tells us about adventures with her date

"I returned the favour and blew him till he came, crying out, in my mouth"

Again the language is poetic and precise, but surprisingly this time there are no comments. Maybe because none of the blokes were left waiting for more after this one, they all turned over and slept or something.

Post number 4 kicks off with the line

"Earlier this year, I slept with a woman for the first time."

Just when you thought she'd climaxed she goes a bit further, teasing us, her hot and sweaty male readers, about her first sexual encounter with another woman. You may have guessed that from my quote of her first line. It's well written in every possible way, even to the extent that she's got one of those little accents above the second e in clich­é. I wouldn't have the faintest idea how to do that, but clichés are about as rare as pink elephants in this blog. She tantalises us as she gives us the background on her experiences with female on female sex, finishing the post by promising more.

More is only ones of three things to come in the next post, Femme Fatale. This is the climax in which our sexy heroine describes her first experience of girl on girl action. The writing is as good, if not better, than her previous posts and predictably there's a bucket load of comments, all from admiring male readers. I would imagine half her readers are trying to figure out who she is and the other half are trying to figure out who her female lover is. At the same time the other half are trying to figure why they didn't try just that little bit harder at maths in school.

Miss Neuf's descriptive powers continue to delight us as she regales us with details and information that most blokes understand from watching porn films. Women probably wouldn't understand, unless they bat for the other team.

The final post (so far) walks and talks us through the act of 6 losing her virginity. It's as sexy, as vivid and as erotic as her loyal readership have come to expect.

And here we are. I'm a firm 6 fan. I think she writes rather brilliantly, so much that it almost doesn't matter to me if the stories she narrates are true. But, it does matter. I find myself wondering what's going on here. It's almost too good to be true. A twenty something girl who loves sex and feels that it's good and healthy. And she's got a brian too. If I was twenty ten years younger...well I'd still be way too old.

Could it be a journalist or writer trying out their skills on an unsuspecting public? Or is Miss Neuf really some bored 50 year old fat bloke sitting in an office somewhere and having a bit of a laugh at our expense?

Maybe it's one of "her" regular commenters in a different identity. Perhaps it's JP's alter ego, perhaps it's me, this post being an even deeper level of bluff in my evil game.

Perhaps it's all as it seems. In which case there's a queue of men who want to meet her. I'd like to take this opportunity to remind Miss Neuf that drummers can do different things with different parts of their body at the same time. No reason, just thought I'd say that.

Check out the blog though.

It's really rather sexy and it's really rather good.

No Sexual Services?!?!

About a week ago I decided, on a bit of a whim, to go for a massage, something I rarely do in this country. I mean the massage, not the decision making bit.

There's a Thai massage and reflexology type of place that's opened up a few local branches lately and I thought I'd ring them, book myself in and go. So I did.

The phone call was made and I booked myself in for a one hour back and shoulders massage. The tone and demeanour of the phone call suggested to me that booking in advance was an unusual occurrence. The lady was helpful and pleasant on the dog, but, when she responded to a request for a booking with

"What time would you like?"

I figured most people just walk in off the street. Perhaps they are so new that they're not at that you must book a week in advance stage just yet.

I drove over there and parked my car. Parking is something we do over here, unlike in Sri Lanka, where I've noticed the tendency is to just abandon the car somewhere near the side of the road. Let's be honest here. To a Sri Lankan driver the concept of parallel parking, where you use that gear that makes the car go backwards, is about as alien as the idea of stopping at a zebra crossing to let someone cross the road.

I strongly suspect that, when a member of the Colombo 7 crowd takes delivery of a new car, in the manual that has been specially written for these types, it says that reverse gear must only be used by the Driver, never the owner of the vehicle.

A short walk to the massage place and I was ensconced in that dodgy music, the weird stuff that sounds like a load of whales and dolphins browsing around an underwater shop that sells Japanese wind chime things and has a very small guitar section. Not guitars that are very small, for monkeys or something, I mean it has a small section that sells guitars. Besides, monkeys can't swim, so that would be just stupid anyway.

The woman, who was the one I had spoken to on the phone, gave me a pair of those dodgy slippers and asked me to fill out a form. Now, if you're like me, a man of the world, or even a woman of the world, you'll know a bit about massages.

You'll know that there are massages and there are, ahem, massages. You'll know that I wanted a massage, not a massage. If I wanted a massage I would have asked for one, or gone somewhere else that did massages. However, all I wanted was a massage. It's logic that a man would understand.

I filled out the form. My name, length of penis, that kind of basic info. It's a good thing "ten" is easy to spell, though I often get stuck on "centimeters". I went through the rest of the questions feeling as if I might fail the exam and be sent home without a massage, or even without a massage. Which is better, do I say yes or no to the question on whether one leg is slightly shorter than the other? Come think of it I think I'm the exact opposite, that one leg is actually slightly longer than the other one.

At the end of the form I signed and printed my name and then read the small print, though it wasn't small at all, in fact it was in a bigger font than everything else on the form. I don't know what font it was, but it looked suspiciously like comic sans MS, one of my personal favourites. The bit that caught my attention was written in a font size of about 16, maybe that was why it caught my attention, as if it was screaming out to be read.

It said:

"Please note, we offer genuine Thai massage services only. NO SEXUAL SERVICES"

Well what the hell was this all about? I didn't want sexual services, a sentence I don't say very often I'll admit. But, the thought of a "happy ending" or a little "extra" or two hadn't even crossed my mind until I read this. My mind immediately flew over to sexual service territory. I started to wonder if they did offer extras, if the little bit of big small print was a just a front, to deter massage parlour inspectors from inspecting further.

Off I went for the massage itself, which I must admit was decidedly average, made a bit more average by the surroundings and conditions. The room had no massage table, there was only a mattress laid out in the floor and there certainly hadn't been a vast amount of time and money lavished on decorating it to make the clients feel as relaxed as possible.

As the massage went through its course I find my mind drifting off, not into the realms of relaxation, whale noises and Japanese wind chimes, but into the world of seedier massage establishments, with extras and things. Men will tell you that it's all well and good to let your mind drift like that during a massage when you're lying on your front, it's when you turn over that these things can be embarrassing.

The massage finished, with no offers nor no requests for some off menu items. This, I think, suited both the masseur and me.

The whole problem was that the small big print was the thing that had put all these thoughts into my mind. It was a serious lesson to me in the power of positive thinking and of suggestion, something I've been interested in for a while.

If you tell a fellow, it could be anyone, not to think of something, then the chances are that said fellow's mind will go off on one and proceed to think of that thing as if that thing is the only thing the fellow has ever had on his mind.

If I owned a massage parlour and wanted to tell my clients that it wasn't a brothel I'd do it by telling them what my establishment DOES do, not what it doesn't do.

Now have a good week all and, whatever you do, DON'T think of a pink elephant will you.

Boys, Girls and Instruction Manuals

The temporary office i'm in has a real window, a luxury for me. Instead of the window I'm used to which merely overlooks some women, now I've got one that looks over a car park, with forty foot lorries loading and unloading at regular intervals. There are forklift trucks doing their thing and activity of all kinds is continually going on.

There are certain boyish things that still capture me, as if were a youngster playing with my toy cars and planes and things. Aiports and planes are a constant source of fascination. My office is about five minutes from Heathrow, I spend far more time than the average person does collecting and dropping people at the airport. Yet I still love the airport. It's got an atmosphere and a feel, a buzz to it, as do all airports for me. There's something about the smell of aircraft fuel, the constant feeling of movement and the pure excitement of seeing the aircraft take off and land that never ceases to impress me.

Cars are one of my loves. I still get that butterfly feeling when I see a Ferrari Dino or hear the unique twin carbed sound of the engine in an old MGB as it trundles past me. I can recognise the tones of an old VW Beetle engine from about four miles and a glance at an Aston Martin Vantage, even though they are an essential accessory for most professional footballers here, can get me just that little bit horny, well a bit more actually.

Ships, now there's another interesting one. I think it's something about the size of them that I marvel at. The way in which these massive iron monstrosities (or whatever they're made of) are little cities in their own right. Is it only me who's constantly in awe at the way in which the containers are managed, how they are stacked and loaded and how they're moved around as if they're tiny little boxes made from cardboard. Whenever I see a forty foot container lorry I look at its size, think that it's a pretty large vehicle, then realize it's tiny in comparision to an ocean going freighter with hundreds of these containers stacked on board.

Instructions manuals are the one men's dilemna I do have though. I'm never sure what the norm is for us men. Are we the ones who are supposed to read them or are we the ones who are supposed to ignore them, only to glance through them at the very last minute, when we have tried all and are just about to give up?

My approach on the instruction manual issue is to generally read the little things before I approach the new item. Of course I don't read all the girl's stuff like where the batteries go and how to operate the power button, but I read the "how to set up and use the new universal remote control" bit before steaming ahead with useage. I wouldn't dream of reading the manual from cover to cover, of digesting every word, but I'll glance through it to get the basics sorted. But what exactly is the trend here? Do most men do this or is it the fairer and lovelier sex ( that's women to you, Java) who read manuals?

But instruction manuals, planes, trains and automobiles are all well and good. Airports, cranes and constructions sites may well be measurements of a man. Whether you read instructions or not just might give some indication. Shaving, periods, childbirth and farting might just be crucial differences between the sexes.

Ultimately there's only one foolproof way, one accurate gauge for differentiating the sexes. It's the only surefire way to tell the men from the women. I've studied it for a few years and concluded that it's true the world over, with a possible exception being Chatham in Kent.

Yes people, it's how you throw a ball. Simple, but true. Women throw like girls, men throw like boys. If you have the action of some kind of demented shotputter, where there is no backswing involved, a little grunt and a tiny distance cleared, then you're a girl. If you casually throw a cricket or tennis ball with the action of Andy Roddick serving an ace then you're a boy, complete with backspin, distance and nonchalence.

You may or may not have a willy, you may or may not be able to give birth. These things are mere details, just minor technicalities.

How you throw is the real measurement.

The smell of sex

There I was, happily in conversation with Lady Luck the other day when, from out of nowhere (to use a Faith No Moreism) the topic veered sharply to the right and we found ourselves talking about sex and relationships.

"No, that didn't really work out because he didn't smell right", my learned friend said.

As the suave and sophisticated "take things in my stride" sort of bloke that you all know I am, I just carried on listening, thinking that she meant things didn't "feel" right with the sad, dumped fellow. Maybe the chemistry wasn't there or he liked Coronation St and she liked Eastenders, or any number of things.

"No I mean he really didn't smell right" she said.

"BO" I thought, and said.

"No he just didn't smell right, not BO or anything, I just didn't get on with his smell". The good Dr said.

In her capacity as my new medical mentor she then went on to explain to me, her new favourite Uncle, how this smell thing can influence her choice of partner. I was, in fact I am, rather flabbergasted by this whole concept.

As far as I'm concerned women smell of perfume and stuff. The junior ones in my house tend to smell of grubby schools and soil mixed with half a can of "My First deodorant", a dangerous bouquet at times!

Men, if they're like me, smell of deodorant and men's stuff, like the wood that your drumsticks are made from. (no pun intended, but I wish I could think of a good "wood" line there).

Suddenly, at an age when I could do without this sort of thing, I've got a whole new viewpoint to consider. If you want to know the proper scientific girl's angle on this check it out here.

Just don't get me started on this other Polyfilla thing
I'm off for a band practice and a lie down now..........