Twelve things I’ve learned being a Dad to two under four (PART 2)

Thank you for returning to read the rest of my far from comprehensive, barely instructional list of twelve things I’ve learned so far as a parent. May it strike a chord, or make you feel smug and superior, you hubris-filled wanker. Either way, I hope you enjoy it. You can read PART 1 here.

5.) TV is your friend

Don’t listen to the snobs: your TV is as much a part of the family as the grandparents, or that funny uncle with the twitch. My partner and I vowed never to use the TV as a live-in babysitter or a motivational tool, and largely we’ve observed this vow. We’re careful to offset time spent in front of the TV with oodles of outdoor larks, jigsaws, puzzles, pretend play, books and tickle-fights. But sometimes… Just sometimes. Some days. TV may very well rot your children’s brains, but the brain-rotting skills of children themselves are unmatched and exemplary, so in this dirty war no weapon is out of bounds. I’ll be honest, if it wasn’t for the TV I’d probably have immolated myself by now.

6.) Don’t sweat the swearing

I don’t care what the Preachy McTutters of this world say: a swearing kid is a fucking hilarious kid. Naturally we don’t deliberately teach our three-year-old swear words. We don’t create Venn diagrams to show him the full galaxy of obscenities at his disposal, or give formal lessons every weekday morning. ‘Now, Jack, I want you to say it again, but this time I want to hear you enunciate the consonants like we practised. Ki…ki… ki… Ku… ku… ku… kun…kun…kun…. That’s it, you can do it!’

You simply don’t realise how much you profane as a matter of course until you’re sharing your home with a kid or two. Don’t get me wrong, over the years we’ve tried to shrink our pool of bad words (removing an em eff here, a cee there) and reduce the frequency of our swearing, and on the whole we’ve been successful in our efforts, but a one hundred per cent standard is impossible to attain: as long as there are frights, stubbed toes, dropped plates, inconsiderate drivers and sudden swirls of anger there will always be ‘bloody bastards’, ‘shitting buggers’ and ‘Are you fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuckkking kiiiidddddddddding meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees’.

A friend of mine recently told me that she and her husband had been aghast to hear their three-year-old daughter saying ‘Oh my God!’ As I listened, I had a flashback to all of the times our Jack has blasphemed, bee’d, essed and effed, all of which were entirely and inescapably my fault. I’ve heard him affectionately refer to a playmate as ‘a wee bugger’; I’ve watched him dancing around the toilet chanting ‘Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!’ like some demented shaman; I’ve seen him sneering a swear through one side of his mouth in the same manner and voice as a 1950s Italian-American Godfather, even shaking his little fist: ‘Sunnnnnn of a bitch!’; I’ve watched him lightly slap his own forehead and cry out ‘Oh fuck’. It’s like some horrendous version of Blankety Blank sometimes. “OK, here’s your next one. The guy tailgating me is a blanking blank?” “He’s a f….” “Nooooooooooo!”

In saying that, he’s seldom swore the same swear twice, largely because we react to each utterance with calm neutrality, gently re-directing his words down a different path without giving the no-no words any sense of power by confirming their taboo status.

Some examples:

“Yes, you can say (x), but it would be better to say (y) instead. Yes, maybe next time we’ll just say (y)”

or

“No, I didn’t say that, darling, you must’ve misheard. I said ‘rubber trucking other cuffer‘. What does it mean?… I’ve no fucking idea, son.”

7.) People lie about their kids.

Nobody talks up the beautiful, life-affirming aspects of parenthood. All parents-to-be are given the same bleak and nightmarish pep-talk: “You’re having a baby? Oh, you poor bastard! Forget sleep. Forget sex. You’ll be up to your knees in shit and piss. You’ll be so tired you’ll start hallucinating sentient raisins. You’ll be stressed out. You’ll probably start serial killing frogs, and using your head as a hammer to smash down play-parks. Your left leg will turn into an eighteenth century courtesan and start trying to marry people. Your right leg will fall off. You’ll shrink by five feet. Your eyes will explode. You’ll think you’re an owl. Seriously, I’m not kidding around here, my cousin was a dad for one day and he set fire to himself and tried to ram-raid a church. With a bison. I’m telling you; you might as well just kill yourself now, save the trouble. That’s how awful kids are.”

And then once your kids are a bouncing, bawling reality, and you’re asked the questions: ‘How are things at home?/How’s life as a parent?/how is/are the kid(s)?’ you lie then, too. Maybe you’ve just been sat at home cuddling your kids while watching a movie, or joyously laughing at their inspired silliness, or moved to tears by their innocence and sense of wonder, but you’ll always say something like: “Those bloody kids will be the death of me!”

8.) Bye, bye, sex life

Scheduling amorous activity with your partner when you’ve got children is difficult; scheduling it when you share a bed with your kids (the baby sleeps in an adjoined extension, our toddler usually sneaks in beside us at some point through the night) is nigh on impossible. The very fact that you have to ‘schedule’ at all is a bitter pill to swallow (a pill to swallow? Christ, there’s a Freudian slip). Sex isn’t an activity that lends itself well to scheduling or good time management skills, although as I’m writing this sentence I’m remembering a little something called ‘the entire sex industry’ that rather depends upon both of those things for its growth and survival, so I guess I’ll rephrase and refocus my argument somewhat: good time management and awesome scheduling skills may be useful, but they sure as shit never made anything sexier. Sex in the home between two partners should be sexy, urgent, primal, spontaneous, and not boring and clinical like making an appointment to see your bank manager (if you’re currently banging your bank manager, please feel free to imagine a different analogy).

The ideal scenario is for both kids to be fast asleep, and for us to slink silently from the bed and into the hall downstairs, to commence the world’s quietest bout of passion, like two mime artists make-believing a normal sex-life. If we make it to the living room we’re in for a riot of locked-knees, cold bums, burnt bums and stiff necks. We still have to be savagely quiet, but if there’s an accidental scream at this point it’s usually because we’ve stained the couch we’re still bloody paying for.

Wherever the venue, time is very much of the essence; because we’re both aware that we could be interrupted at any second, our coupling becomes less like a spontaneous act of love and more like two people desperately trying to beat their record on the mechanical bull. Never matter. I’ve always excelled at getting it done quickly.


For a longer consideration of the deleterious effects of children on your sex life, click here.

Click on PART 1 for the first four 12 things.

The Sex Life of Parents

As a teenager I worked very briefly in the tomato department of a fruit-and-veg packing plant. I had to stand at a conveyor belt for eight hours a day placing tomatoes – eight tomatoes at a time – into an infinity of plastic punnets. Tomato, tomato, tomato. Punnet, punnet, punnet. Before taking this job I’d counted myself among the tomato’s greatest fans. I loved everything about those round, red sods: their soup, which was warm and comforting, like a cuddle at a lower-tier relative’s funeral; how the tangy wetness of a single sliced tomato could bring a whole bag of finger-waggin’ sass to a boring old cheddar sandwich (imagine a tomato saying ‘Hmmm mmmm’, ‘you go girl’ and ‘ah don’t THINK so’); how easily a tomato could be transformed into a portable ballistic weapon with a single bite.

After two-and-a-half days of non-stop tomato-packing it’s fair to say that my love for them was waning. As tomatoes dropped through my fingers by the thousand-load they came to assume the consistency and snack-appeal of cricket balls, possessing the sass not of an enormous black woman in the audience of Ricky Lake, but of a recently-deceased Alan Titchmarsh. Tomato, tomato, tomato. Punnet, punnet, punnet. Tomatoes. I was bloody sick of them. Immune to their charms. They were just things now, lifeless, inanimate things, devoid of all joy and use and substance. I never wanted to sink my teeth into one of those round mother-fuckers ever again.

That’s pretty much how witnessing the births of my children made me feel about vaginas.

At least for a while. The forswearance was temporary, dear reader. Once the stitches had healed, and the missus had reclaimed her inclination, and my NAM-style fanny flashbacks had ceased – ‘The head… the head was sticking out, and, and it was blue, man… it was covered in blood and …bent out of shape and… oh CHRIST… (swigs another quart of bourbon)’ – things went back to normal. Attitudinally at least.

Unfortunately, the temporary reframing of my perspective on vaginas was merely the opening salvo in a much wider war upon my sex life; a war that was being waged against me by – in a weird, round-about-way – my own sex life from the past. My enemy: the physical manifestation of fifty per cent of my own sainted DNA.

Having sex with kids Having sex when you’ve got kids

Your baby’s first words to the world, unspoken and unspeakable, consist of a simple resolution never to let you have sex again. ‘Em, hello – you’ve got me? Why would you want to do this again? PUT THOSE THINGS AWAY!’, their wails seem to say. Babies are nature’s most exquisitely evolved biological padlocks and chastity belts. Your new kid on the block is a cock-block; a hex on your sex. How much wood would a rude dad chuck if a rude dad’s son hucked puke? I’m not even sure what that last sentence actually means, but I do know, with clarity and certainty, that y’all ‘aint getting any sex – at least not until after the divorce.

Until then you’ll roam the earth a foggy-eyed sexless husk, splitting your time between cooing and cursing, pooing and nursing. Inclined to be amorous, but too tired to follow through, or else perfectly well-placed physically but too mentally frazzled to get into the swing of things.

Or, worst of all, the planets of your desire will align, and you’ll be in the midst of blissful sexual abandon when a baby’s cry will cut through the air and wilt your willy away to nothing. They know, they just seem to KNOW when you’re at it, those tiny bastards, wherever you are in the house, and whichever stage of the process you’re at, and they’ll move heaven and earth to put a stop to your shenanigans.

Our kids have always seemed unknowingly to favour their mother on such occasions, and many, many times my chivalry has been punished; having selflessly provided pleasure through non-penetrative means I’ve been denied an orgasm of my own by the sounding of a baby’s cock-blocking klaxon, halting us pre-coital, and sending her to soothe the baby back to sleep, and me into the bathroom for a consolatory wank.

So having sex when you’ve got kids is hard. Unless, of course, you happen to be one of those couples who’re to be found in the pub within seven days of the birth, telling people you’re on a well-deserved break from the stress and exhaustion of parenthood, and noisily proclaiming to all who’ll listen that having a baby needn’t affect your social commitments or change your life. Not change your life? It’s a baby, not a slight fucking limp, you vomit-smeared scrotums. Anyway, if you’re one of those couples then you’re probably free to make the beast with two backs as often as your built-in babysitting network will allow, in which case this article isn’t for you, and you should stop reading it immediately. May I suggest you go fuck yourselves? You’ve clearly got the time.

Aural sex: ‘Come ear!’

Every sexual encounter between you and your partner has as its template the fervent spontaneity of the first eighteen months or so of your relationship; the heady, come-to-beddy days where any time, occasion or flat surface (vertical or horizontal) would do; when your hands felt grafted to the skin of the other. It’s the memory of these days that makes the meticulous scheduling of sexual activity seem so off-puttingly antiseptic, despite the absolute necessity of such planning when you’ve got kids in the house. It makes what’s supposed to be five minutes a good solid hour of passion feel about as sexy as a hospital appointment.

Because of this new reality it pays always to be on the lookout for ways to return a little verve and spontaneity to the process. Just last week my partner used her skills of time and resource management, and sexual intuition to exploit a rare opportunity. Both of our kids were asleep before 8pm, and neither of us appeared to be ill or over-tired, so off she slinked upstairs to the bathroom to slip into something a little more comfortable.

Unfortunately, I had no idea this surprise was in the offing – and she in turn had no idea that I was bursting on a shite. As she stood naked in the bathroom, seconds away from togging herself up in a titillating outfit, the sound of my fist banging on the door relayed this information to her swiftly and efficiently. ‘Get out!’ I implored her. ‘Get out quick, I’m literally about to shite myself!’

The door whooshed open. ‘That’s killed it,’ she said, as she brushed past me to go change into some lounge-pants.

Another hard-core sesh as a parent

Despite the existence of a multitude of niche German movies lurking in deeply unhygienic corners of the internet, there are few greater passion killers than an unexpected jobby. So we decided we’d take a rain-check on the cha-cha-cha and snuggle up on the couch and watch TV instead. But still. The gauntlet had been thrown down, and the promise of sex had set my ridey-sense tingling. I made some overtures, seductively wiggling my eyebrows and shuffling up the couch towards her crotch like some brain-starved zombie.

‘Why don’t I do something for you?’ I asked.

She didn’t say ‘no’. She said something much worse. She said: ‘You burst in on me before I had a proper chance to wash myself, and I’m not going back up to that bathroom to inhale the smell of your boufing shite, so I guess we’ll just have to keep watching TV.’

I’m sure I’ve heard that line in a porno somewhere. Wounded and thwarted, I bided my time. We took stock and tried again. I shuffled closer and we went in for a kiss. Our lips softly butted, but as soon as they’d touched she yanked her face away from mine with a violence normally reserved for cases of whiplash in a car-crash. A grimace of displeasure warped her features. This isn’t a particularly encouraging sexual signal, unless you happen to be some sort of sadistic deviant, or have been married for twenty years (the two are by no means mutually exclusive).

‘What is it now?’ I asked.

‘Your ear,’ she said, shuddering. ‘It stinks.’

She was right. I had an infection in my left ear. But like the smell of a man’s own farts, I’d grown used to it, and had little idea it was so repulsive. So I couldn’t fault her disgust, but even still I sulked, my pride wounded, the thin and tenuous bubble of my sexual confidence well and truly popped.

‘Don’t sulk. I’m not rejecting you, I’m rejecting your ear.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ I said, even sulkier still.

Don’t listen to what these women’s magazines tell you. Sulking is HOT. It really works up a soak.

She tried to be conciliatory. ‘Maybe… maybe if we have to kiss, you could come at me from one side only, keep the bad ear away.’

I shrugged. She sank deep into thought. Seconds later, there was a light-bulb moment, followed by a big grin. She stroked my shoulder, eager to share her epiphany.

‘Or why not just do me from behind?’

I gave a dismissive wave. ‘Nah, it’s finished. I’m vile. I’m a vile and disgusting creature. I stink and I’m horrible.’ I don’t know why I was so gloomy about it; that realisation had never stopped me before.

We watched TV in silence for a few moments.

‘Maybe…’ she began, the words tip-toeing carefully out of her mouth, ‘Maybe if you put your hearing aid in, it’ll plug the smell!’

I shook my head. ‘Maybe I could just f*** you with a walking stick?! Jesus, now I feel disgusting AND old. Brilliant.’

At this point she laughed. I did, too. How bloody ridiculous.

‘Is this what our sex life is going to be like now?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’ll probably get much worse.’ A third child is very much in the offing for the not-too-distant future, so our offing days are probably numbered.

‘What do you want to do?’ she asked. I smiled.

In defiance of the Gods of Domesticity and Sexual Scheduling, I did her from behind.

And then I ate a tomato.

Why love is more important than sex

I swaggered around the homestead one weekend morning, naked except for a dressing gown, which billowed around my bare arse like a Roman’s cloak – but a Roman’s cloak that was soft and cosy and really rather effeminate, if I’m being honest. I’m a morning person, much to the consternation and occasional fury of my partner, who either isn’t a morning person or simply isn’t a ‘me’ person. I like to greet the day with a series of nonsense songs, daft-dances and urgent finger-clicks, whilst she likes to greet the day by violently murdering me.

Despite my glee I had woken up with a bit of a jumpy tummy, which probably has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that I have the same diet as a bin inside a McDonalds’ restaurant. My stomach issued a rumble here, a grumble there, a Mexican wave of nausea there. But no matter. I still had a song in my heart, and a fart in my… Oh, hello. A fart! Where did you come from, you little tyke? Well, the conditions aren’t ideal, but if you really must insist upon making a life for yourself in the world outside my rectum, then who am I to… let me just feel it out here, and give a little squee…

Oh.

Oh my.

You’ve heard of a shart, right? Well this wasn’t a shart. It was pretty much a full-blown shit.

One doesn’t accept a surprise defecation quietly. My loud regrets, interlaced with hissed staccato swearing, stirred my sweet from her slumber, and led her siren-like to the hallway, where I stood temporarily frozen by fear, regret and disgust. I quickly bolted to the bathroom, grabbing up cloths and cleaning products. I didn’t want her to see this, to learn what had happened! To my horror, a few stray droplets of poo peppered the tiled floor of the bathroom in my wake. I sprayed and wiped and rinsed the tiles at lightning speed, and then hurtled into the hallway to mask or remove the worst of my shame. Why had we carpeted the hall and not kept the laminate, I lamented! Her footsteps drew closer still. It was too late, too late! I bombed back to the bathroom to grab more cloths, and to wash down my legs, but in my haste I slipped on a section of tile I’d just cleaned, flew into the air and just about knocked myself unconscious against the wall.

Even though I genuinely thought I’d have to go to hospital to be treated for a concussion, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a human being laugh as much or as hard as ‘the love of my life’ did that day.

Some people say that love is sticking by someone through thick and thin, being willing to go to the ends of the earth for them, risking life and limb in pursuit of their wellbeing and happiness, being willing to lay down and die for them. I’ve no doubt it is. But love is also still having the desire to fuck someone after you’ve witnessed them shitting the floor.

If our sex life can survive that, kids should be a doddle.

Sit on my face and tell me that you love me…

faces

Face-sitting has been banned by government decree and banished from British-made porn. About time. For too long this flagrant breach of health and safety regulations has put thousands of plucky pro-fuckers at risk of suffocation in their work place. Not to mention the pressure that the existence of this exotic sex act puts on the male population, who already find it challenging enough to operate a vagina under normal conditions. Yes, thank you, David Cameron, for striking this hellish oral atrocity from the pages of the minge manifesto. We gave women the vote, and seemingly that wasn’t enough: how many different types of orgasms do these greedy bastards need?

Face-sitting isn’t right, fair or safe. It’s like playing the bagpipes without the mouthpiece, directly into the bag, with the added danger that the bag could crush your neck and swallow your head at any moment (not to mention contending with the vague smell of unwashed bum).  Perhaps now our over-stretched emergency rooms will be safe from the hordes of naked women who waddle into our hospitals, swishing the corpses of their asphyxiated partners behind them like a tail. Farewell to the era of the Human Centipede.

But wait, men. And let’s think about this for a minute. And think hard. This all seems like a good thing on the surface. But is it really? This ban strikes at the heart of something that we all hold dear, something that no cabal of men in suits has the right with which to tamper: girl on girl porn. This is the thin end of the wedge. Let them ban face-sitting and female ejaculation from our favourite films, and we could face a cold future in which all lesbian porn is reduced to two women chastely greeting each other with a peck on the cheek, and then sitting down to enjoy a Dirty Dancing/Footloose marathon. Is this what you want? Could you wank to that? I, for one, won’t stand for it.

Now, I’m not the rebellious type. But fortunately I am a pragmatist, and a cracking inventor. So here’s my solution, something so powerful that it would have Duncan Bannatyne leaping out of his Dragon’s seat and hollering ‘I’m bloody in! Here’s £50million ya dobber, sign me up!’

Imagine a frame, much like a mini-zimmer or a tiny erection of scaffolding perhaps constructed by the Dozers in Fraggle Rock, that can sit over a man’s or a woman’s face. This frame will take the weight of a vagina, and allow the mouth underneath full – and safe – access to the juicy goodness above without fear of accident or death. I call it…

Wait for it…

Scoffolding.

(This idea is trademarked, so don’t even fucking think about nicking it.)

Fisting's been banned, too. Good news for The Avengers.

Fisting’s been banned, too. Good news for The Avengers.

More Stuff is Banned

I don’t know what I can do to save fisting, except maybe appeal to UKIP on the grounds that the Europeans will still be able to lead the industry in their export of bunched-finger fucking, while we sexually-manacled Brits are forced to offer a sorry, single digit to the world. Come on, Farage. Get to Brussels, pronto. Churchill will be punching in his grave!

As for the directive that all aggression be expunged from UK-porn, I can only extend my full support.   Long have I awaited pornography that’s more in the spirit of Sgt. Wilson from Dad’s Army: “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind awfully… if I put my willy in here.” And who among us hasn’t secretly wished to hear these words whispered in a sweaty, slippery, screaming skin-flick: “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

I’m not going to attempt to fight the corner of simulated violence, pissing or pooing in porn, though. Probably best not to masturbate to that, on balance. Besides, if you are so inclined, there’s always Germany.

If any people from the UK porn industry are reading this I’m now taking pre-orders for Scoffolding™. As it currently only exists in my head, I’m going to have to ask for £100,000 per unit. I’m also doing some R&D on pairs of fake balls which at the moment I’m calling scroto-types. Thank you.

Young Jamie: Portrait of a Serial Douchebag (Part 3) The Robot

Another sneaky peak at my school days, from the pages of my Primary 2 diary jotter. Today: behold, the robot!

Ok, let’s just get this out of the way, yeah? There’s an elephant in this room. A giant, cock-shaped one. So let’s grab it with both hands: my ‘robot’ has a helmet for a head (complete with Japseye-slit); a shaft for a body; and both of these parts are resting atop a big set of squishy, flattened balls. All that’s missing is the fountain of jizz gushing whale-like from its head. There are some deviations from the classic form, of course: penises typically don’t have accordion-esque robot arms dangling from them, or have ‘VULGAR’ written across them. Jesus, what a name to pick. VULGAR. How Freudian. I might as well have called it DIRTY BAD NAUGHTY PLACE. I wonder why the teacher corrected all of the spelling mistakes, but never bothered to write: ‘Jamie, you’ve clearly drawn me a big cock, you wee pervert.’ She graded it G for good, and then awarded me a star. Maybe, in those pre-internet-porn times, the old spinster was just glad to be seeing a cock, however robotic its manifestation. ('Jamie - I want this robot in me. Mrs Snowdon) This whole diary entry raises many questions: Where did I make him put up his hand? And in what way did I make him ‘stick’? And, most pertinently of all, why was I writing about having a maths and sex orgy with a robot when I have never, ever owned a robot, toy or otherwise? And the teacher simply accepted my claim!? I said my family owned a super-intelligent sex-robot, and she just shrugged and  gave me a tick? Sick-ass bitch.

Ok, let’s just get this out of the way, yeah? There’s an elephant in this room. A giant, cock-shaped one. So let’s grab it with both hands: my ‘robot’ has a helmet for a head (complete with Japseye-slit); a shaft for a body; and both of these parts are resting atop a big set of squishy, flattened balls. All that’s missing is the fountain of jizz gushing whale-like from its head. There are some deviations from the classic form, of course: penises typically don’t have accordion-esque robot arms dangling from them, or have ‘VULGAR’ written across them. Jesus, what a name to pick. VULGAR. How Freudian. I might as well have called it DIRTY BAD NAUGHTY PLACE. I wonder why the teacher corrected all of the spelling mistakes, but never bothered to write: ‘Jamie, you’ve clearly drawn me a big cock, you wee pervert.’ She graded it G for good, and then awarded me a star. Maybe, in those pre-internet-porn times, the old spinster was just glad to be seeing a cock, however robotic its manifestation. (‘Jamie – I want this robot in me. Love, Mrs Snowdon’) This whole diary entry raises many questions: Where did I make him ‘put up his hand’? And in what way did I make him ‘stick’? And here’s the biggest problem. I claimed to have a robot. I was lying. Not only did I claim to have a robot, but I claimed to have a super-intelligent cock-shaped sex robot. Again, I was lying. Furthermore, they don’t exist. Why was I not challenged on this? My teacher was either a) a lazy, stupid, cock-daft deviant, or b) a big fan of Rocky 4.

 

Bore Drummond Safari Park – Part 2: Lion Bastards

After savaging David Dickinson, this lioness used his balls as toys.

And so to the lion enclosure. Lions are great, aren’t they? Surely they must be the bee’s knees, the cat’s bollocks, the mane men, the pride of the park? Well… not really; the first few minutes I spent in their enclosure, slowly looping around the track, was about as exciting as watching my own domestic cats rolling around and licking their balls, albeit on a slightly larger scale. OK, I did see a couple of lions having sex, but that didn’t last long. Certainly not long enough for me to take advantage of my nascent hard-on (To wank along to the scene outside, of course. Not to run out there and join in a giant lion gang-bang. I’m not a pervert, for Christ’s sake!).

He’s going for the sexy shoulder bite, but she still couldn’t give a fuck.

I could relate to the lion, though. Mid-way through the sex the female got bored, ejected his catty cock from her liony labia, and staggered off. She slumped down on a patch of grass fifteen feet away from him, and started to have a kip. I don’t know if lions are capable of feeling dejected, but this guy looked pretty fucked off and miserable. No wonder the males go out on the savanna and kill things. It’s not to eat: lions are actually vegetarians. They just disembowel springboks to make themselves feel manly again after their wives have booed off their shagging skills.

In fact, hang on. That’s not even true, is it? The males do a tiny bit of the hunting, but it’s the lionesses that do the bulk of the running, ripping and killing. So the lions are crap in bed, don’t provide food for the dinner table, and just sit around all day growling at other guys and preening their big hair and doing their nails. I think the pandas might have some competition in the 2013 ‘Who’s Up For A Bit of An Extinction?’ contest.

‘I said Hakuna Matata. HAKUNA MATATA WAKE UP YOU BASTARD!!!’

I drew my car up alongside a group of lions that were sleeping on the grass and tried to coax them into action by burring the window down and blasting up the volume on the radio. It sort of worked. One of them waggled its ears a wee bit. Hardly the stuff of Attenborough. I don’t know what I was expecting, to be honest. A full-on lion rave?

Luckily, there was excitement – and danger – on the horizon. Two lions, who had been relaxing next to a cluster of tree stumps further up the enclosure, started stalking towards my car. Their stares were cold and unblinking, and I’m sure I detected a twitch of primal hunger on their lips. Then, just as my heart started thumping in my chest, they meandered lazily past me and flopped down next to the other lions who were sleeping at the other side of my car, and joined them in a kip. You lied to me, Disney. You said these cunts were fun, and could talk, and form religions and shit. But they’re crap.

If only I’d had the presence of mind to smuggle in a couple of sheep from the field outside I could really have livened things up – given a few children one or two interesting things to say to their psychiatrists in later life.

‘Now, Jeannie, can you trace all of the recent bad events in your life back to one discernible root cause, perhaps in your childhood?’

Jeannie rocks in her seat, grasping her knees with white knuckles, saliva foaming at the edges of her mouth. ‘Yesssss,’ she stammered. ‘The day …the…lovely… sheep died.’

This… never happened at the safari park.

So, disappointingly, the lions did fuck all. You can hardly blame them, I suppose. If a bus-load of lions had visited my flat on a typical Sunday afternoon I doubt they would have witnessed anything more exciting than the odd bit of dish-washing, ball-scratching or half-hearted masturbation. Actually, that’s not true. I probably wouldn’t have been doing the dishes.

Still, why would a bus-load of lions come to my flat? And what maniac would transport them there? Somebody needs to answer these questions.

Have you ever heard a lion’s roar? I mean, not on TV: in a safari park, or in the wild? When your bowels can pick up the sound first-hand? Later on that day, when I was pottering about elsewhere in the park, I heard it. Rumbling, growling, roaring. Like it was coming from everywhere in the park at once in one rectum-rocking symphony of primal terror. I was glad to be hearing that sound in the safety of an open-prison for beasts, rather than out on the savanna with a packed lunch and a spear.

The next enclosure contained many bison. But who, apart from other bison, gives much of a fuck about bison? Moving on…

‘Get busy swimming… or get busy dying.’

Ah, the sea lion show. Now you’re talking. I never fully realised the unbridled happiness and joy an animal could bring to my heart until I saw those slippery guys cynically exploited by the promise of food into performing hilarious tricks. The trainer claimed that the sea lions always enjoy themselves while putting on the show, and I guess the club-shy bastards’d better show it if they ever want to eat again this millennium. To be honest, though, the faux-cynicism I’m affecting here could find no purchase-hold in my head or heart during the ten or so minutes I was privileged to watch those two adorable creatures at work.

That tasche will be coming off for Movember.

While they were sitting still and awaiting instruction, their heads bobbed and rocked about in a figure of eight motion, which brought to mind a sub-aquatic Stevie Wonder. When active, they darted and dived into and out of the water, balanced balls on their snouts, imitated seals, called on command, climbed stairs and jumped off of high boards. I loved them!

But possibly the greatest thing one of the creatures did, something that made me laugh uncontrollably each time it happened – that I think is one of the simplest yet best things I have ever seen an animal be trained to do – was clap! It clapped! It sat on its podium, threw back its head and slapped its flippers together like a mad-thing. And my face lit-up like a Syrian government building each time. Usually the sea lions did it in tandem with the audience, which somehow made it even funnier. Perhaps I’ve found my happy place – what’s the sound of one sea-lion clapping? I don’t care. It’s brilliant! Still, there’s room for improvement: if they can somehow teach them to smoke it’ll be fucking awesome.

‘Here I am, MIMED-SEAL DELIVERED, I’M YOURS!’

I’ve heard it said that it’s good for the mental faculties to absorb at least one new fact a day, so yours is coming up a few sentences from now. If you discover that you already know the fact I’m about to share with you, then go and open the dictionary and find a word you’ve never heard of and learn it, so you don’t feel left out.

Ahem, here goes: the way to tell the difference between a seal and a sea lion is by looking at the ears. Apparently the seal has internal ears, and the sea lion has protruding ears. This is fantastic, for a number of reasons, but most crucially: we now know that a sea lion can do an even better Stevie Wonder impression than we first imagined.

OUR JOURNEY AROUND THE SAFARI PARK CONCLUDES THIS WEEKEND.

I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For…

My behind-the-scenes webhost program tells me which browser search terms have led people directly or indirectly to Jamie Andrew With Hands. Granted, for some of the entries my website will have been on page 633 of 120,000 of the search engine’s results, but never-the-less: here are some of the more amusing search terms. Type these in and sooner or later you’ll find this site, although you’ve got to wonder what some of these people were actually looking for in the first place. I’ve sorted the searches under appropriate headings.

Cunt 

what a cunt: Hardly surprising that this search should lead to me.

sheep shagging cunt: My grandfather may have been from Aberdeen, but I find this insulting.

cunt beauty contest: It may relate to the piece on this site about the ‘Miss Falkirk 2012’ competition, but I’m holding out hope that there exists somewhere in the world a vaginal beauty pageant. Miss Piss Flaps or something. ‘And now that the swimwear section is over, we move on to the talent contest. Bring on the ping pong balls, the American football and the cans of Irn Bru.’

why are bus passengers all cunts: Probably keyed in by a pre-postal bus driver, seconds before he recreated the movie Speed on the First 60 service to Alloa.

photos being taken of cunts: This is either the Scottish vernacular for ‘photos being taken of people’ – and why would you search for something so banal? – or the user was searching for photos of photos being taken of female genitals. Indescribably weird.

fat mexican cunt: The nationality is unambiguous – the person being searched for MUST be Mexican – but must the owner be fat or the cunt itself? I guess we’ll never know. And for that we should be thankful.

see our cunts all lined up: But why?

cunts lined up for fucking: Ah, I see. Guiness World Record attempt?

smoking fucking cunts: New McDonalds meal? Or violent banter from Glasgow’s new top gangster, Marsbarface?

hairy man cunts: Oh dear. Is this what the future holds for the Ladyboys of Bangkok once they get a bit older? ‘Ladies and gents, please welcome to the stage the Hairy Man Cunts of Motherwell!’

very nice cunts very nice cunts: So good they searched for it twice. If they were so concerned about cunt quality, perhaps they should have searched for ‘exceedingly good cunts.’

turkish people are cunts: Ah, must be a bit of Googling from the German minister for Immigration.

Which brings us to the next category of searches:

Foreigners

on holiday in marmaris the turks shagged her later she told her hubby: Oh, you romantic fool, searching for such a tear-jerker! Could you not spell Romeo and Juliet? Or maybe the searcher was a horny cuckold reliving the story of his wife’s infidelity, a tub of wallpaper paste and an empty toilet roll tube at his side.

scottish fat fucked in marmaris: Dunfermline man leaves tub of dripping in his hotel room; Turkish cleaner fucks it. That’s my guess, anyway.

do turkish men pay for blonde girls: No, you racist. Just because blonde women don’t want to sleep with you for free on holiday doesn’t mean that the Turks you see with little British floozies draped over them have paid for it. For greater success, my friend, try the Turkish technique out for yourself. You’ll only need two things: lies and alcohol.

cockmail persian: Sounds like some dodgy Iranian cartoon character to me.

greenland piss: Is this some sort of delicacy? I’ve heard it goes really well with…

reindeer shit: …yeah, that’s right. Think I saw it on Gordon Ramsay. Greenland piss and reindeer shit. Or is it Icelandic goat spunk with reindeer shit? I can never remember.

greenland wanking: Well, what the fuck else is there to do in Greenland, except gut seals and go sledging? For added fun why not add a splash of wanking? Little tip, though. Don’t leave your willy unsheathed for too long in those sub-zero temperatures or your little tip will break off in your hand like a false nail.

And with that we segue into the next category of searches:

Famous Folk

richard and judy wank: Is this a declaration (if so I don’t want to see the evidence), or a wish to see it happen? Merciful Jesus. Or maybe ‘The Richard and Judy wank’ is a new sexual sensation, similar to ‘You Say, We Pay.’ I’ve got it! A guy’s girlfriend/wife turns her back as he goes through her female contacts on Facebook, describing them to her as he beats off. If she gets twenty of them right, her prize is his promise not to be looking at her sister’s tits at the point of ejaculation. We’ll call it ‘You Guess, I’ll Mess.’

has louis walsh ever gotten a blowjob: Why would Louis Walsh disseminate this information? And why would anyone want to know this? Unless they wanted to be his first…

eagles cheerleader jamie fingering herself: I typed this one in, as it sounded… interesting? Incredibly disappointing. I ended up watching Thora Hird fingering herself instead. Save.

And now a less fluid segue…

Shagging and that

quad amputee model fucking: And you thought my comedy set was amoral.

postman fucking village housewife: As long as his black and white cat wasn’t involved.

fucked by a snake: Mounty Python? I don’t know why anyone would want to watch that. Just watch normal shagging, you degenerate. Willies are a bit like snakes anyway, aren’t they? Well, mine is. Foul and leathery.

dog fuck: Oh dear. Jamie Andrew With Hands would never condone that… unless you mean:

dundee sluts shagging: (see above)

ya.fucking.fat.orange.shag.bag.road.airdrie.scotland: The internet is so inclusive even the mentally ill can enjoy it. Well seeing they’re from Airdrie, though.

www pussy s in hands.com: I just checked. This website doesn’t exist! Which is a shame because I thought this was my chance finally to see Jamie the Eagles’ cheerleader fingering herself. Fuck it. I’ll just watch Thora Hird again… Get those thick grey tights off you, you old whore, and spelunk those liver spots up your parched dust box!

jackface sexe: I looked into what Jackface was. A lot of intriguing answers. The last one made me laugh. http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=jackface No mention of it being a masturbatory cum face, though. Would have placed that at number one.

buckie women raped: Some sick puppies out there. Inaccurate anyway. I’ve seen women who drink Buckie. You don’t rape them. THEY rape YOU.

posh pussy: The singer or the class? The cunt or that cat? Questions, questions.

prostitutes in grangemouth: The standard is low, but there aren’t many towns out there where you can get a syphilis-themed blowjob for the price of a bottle of Buckfast.

she was rubbing my cock: A search engine is a strange place to boast this. Perhaps he thinks the computer is his pal, like HAL 9000, and he’s just keeping him in the loop. ‘Hey, computer, this 14 year-old girl had sex with me today, what do you think about that?’ ‘ERROR: ILLEGAL ENTRY.’

what is a twat wand: I’ll get back to you on that one. Sounds like a Harry Potter-themed dildo to me, though. I typed this into google and found a porn-site with a video called NAUGHTY MILF JAMS MAGIC WAND DOWN MOUTH AND TWAT. I thought, ‘Hmmm, intriguing. I haven’t encountered this niche depravity before. Women sticking magic wands inside themselves.’ But it wasn’t a wand. It was a fat old man’s cock. Which wasn’t very magical to be honest. There’s another video advertised on the same page of the site, which is called DIRTY GIRL BOINKS HUNG STIFFY. Who named this porn video? A 12-year-old boy who’d just watched an episode of Scooby Doo?

And now to our final category

Grannies and Trannies

pictures of single grannies in grangemouth: It’s not as off-putting as it first sounds. Most grannies in Grangemouth are 23 anyway.

porn granny jk: Jakey? JK (as in Rowling)?

grannie fucking: Oh my.

granny sex queen: I googled it. No crowned geriatrics, although there was a link to MY MATURE GRANNY: FACIALS. Feel free to have a butcher’s, my filthy little readers, but I’m giving that click a miss. Unless one of you gets in touch to say it was Thora Hird again, in which case it’s showtime.

granny stiflin vagin: I’m lost for words.

tranny with the last name andrew: OI!

‘You’ll find that one in the ‘Vaginal Fantasy’ section, Sir.’

What’s happened to book genres recently? We knew where we were with Western, Sci-fi, Fantasy, Romance, Adventure, and the like, but now the branches of the Genre Tree bear the fruit of some strange and confounding sub-genres. One that caught my eye recently was Vaginal Fantasy.

What’s that then? Any book written by Derek Acorah? It got me wondering, and I imagined a few possible explanations for the phrase. At first I thought Vaginal Fantasy might be a whole sub-genre written for women who spend their lives dreaming of possessing increasingly absurd and far-fetched vaginas.

‘And so, as the sun set behind the hills of Dakota, I squatted in the half-dark, wishing with all of my heart that my fanny could be a leopard. In the morning, my wish had come true, and Tiddles, my pet cat, had paid the ultimate price.’

Perhaps it is the vaginas themselves that are fantasising:

‘Oh what a tortured cunt am I! How I dream of art, of culture, of music! What music I could play as a pianist, were I not condemned to be rammed by one… if only the world could hear me perform I know it would show its appreciation. Oh, how I long for that clap!’

(This next bit hinges on you pronouncing the word ‘vaginal’ in your head so that it rhymes with ‘Lionel’. Potato, pota-toe.) Or is Vaginal Fantasy the latest instalment of the weird Japanese video game series, but with a mingey twist?  If so, it’s begging for a Pokemon cross-over.

But, no, unsurprisingly, it’s none of these things. A book qualifies as Vaginal Fantasy if its intended readership comprises the sort of women who want a dash of porn with their schmaltzy romance. I suppose it’s just a snazzier way of saying ‘erotic fiction’. Thrills and Boom, if you like. Or Thrills and Broom, if you’re feeling really, really adventurous: JK Rowling take note.

‘I just made up the Titticus Outticus spell for a laugh. Who knew it would actually work, Hermione?’

Incidentally, JK, if you’re reading this, sweetheart, I’ve come up with a few ideas you can use if you want to do a Vaginal Fantasy version of Harry Potter – squeeze a few millions more out of the franchise before everyone gets swept away by the next big thing in young adult publishing, which will probably be a fantasy romance about a time-travelling, sex-mad college kid who just happens to be a flesh-eating zombie. Anyway, here are my suggestions for new, sexy Harry Potter titles:

Mary Squirter and the Thrill Officer’s Bone

Hairy Botter and the Chained Bear Secretes

Old Harry Scatter and the Pensioners of Ass-Kablam!

Hell, JK, why be so subtle? Why not just go the full hog and call it:

Harry Potter Goes Absolutely Fucking Bongo Mental and Pumps Everything That Moves, Even Dumbledore, And I’m Talking About the One That Died AFTER He Died

If more Scottish writers get in on the act then we could have our own sub-sub genre, simply called ‘Fanny-tasy.’ Anyway, 50 Shades of Grey is a good example of Vaginal Fantasy, although, having endured some of its chapters, I’ve decided that if a woman wants the book to have a sexy effect on her vagina then she should probably just roll it up and fud herself daft with it.

~~~~~

I stumbled across another sub-genre a few years ago as I was wandering zombie-like around 24-hour Asda. When passing through the book aisle my eyes chanced upon a ticket on a shelf that read: ‘Misery 3-Pack.’ Misery 3-Pack? Who the Hell thinks to themselves, ‘Ooh, I’ve got a wee night to myself here. Get the fire on, put my feet up, get a book out, all cosy. And do you know what I’m hankering after? A nice bit misery, that’s the ticket.’

And not just one chunk of misery: but a three pack! Human history is a long, bitter struggle for survival, throughout which we’ve made it our mission to remove as much misery as possible from our existence, largely through advances in sanitation, medicine and technology. And now, as most of us in the West are privileged to live in an era of comparative safety and luxury, we’re turning to misery as entertainment? What a peculiar little species we are.

Books in this genre are usually autobiographical, and always harrowing; tales of abuse endured and survived; stories that would make even Hitler reach for a box of hankies (although he probably did reach for a box of hankies when his lieutenants reported mass Jew deaths to him; using them to mop up something other than tears, I’d imagine). Typically, Misery Lit books contain sentences like this:

‘It was then I realised, as granny tethered me to a rat in the dungeon and prepared the greased javelin for my helpless starfish, that we probably weren’t going to Disneyland after all.’

As with sex, there’s big money in misery. I wish I could write some Misery Lit. The trouble is, before you can do that you need to have suffered quite a horrific childhood, so that you can draw from those experiences. And my childhood was quite decent. Not perfect – whose is? – but broadly speaking I had quite a comfortable, lower-middle-class upbringing, during which I never feared for my life, or wondered where the next meal was coming from. And the point is this: if my mum had taken the time to beat and shag me, I could’ve been a fucking millionaire by now. Selfish bitch.

Toast tae the Lassies

This is the full text of a ‘To the Lassies’ speech I wrote and read out for a Burns’ Night my friend held at his house two years ago. Most of the assembled laughed, and understood it was all in the name of tomfoolery; one middle-aged woman sat and stared at me in the hope that she could make me die with the power of her mind. 

Toast Tae the Lassies

Women. Pffttt…

That’s all I’ve got. 

‘Does my thought-pattern look fat in this?’

That certainly won’t shock you, because traditionally men are more taciturn than women. That’s a polite way of saying that they never fucking shut up. A woman can talk for three days without getting a dry throat, without threat of an empty mouth, and on subjects as diverse as ‘blah blah blah’ and ‘shoes’.

Women don’t transmit on our frequency. That’s when they bother to speak in our language in the first place. Science has proved this. A study was done comparing communication and language between the sexes, looking at what we say, how we say it and how we are received and perceived, and it found that what a woman says, the content of their speech, isn’t NEARLY as important… as the size of her tits.

‘Do you know how hard it is to get four comfortable pairs of Jimmy Choos?’

Women project their voices like missiles. Let’s put it this way: if the female black widow could talk, it wouldn’t need to murder its mate after sex. In fact the human female’s recourse to conversation appears, to the black widow, an unspeakably savage act. A woman won’t so much argue that black is white, but that both of these are wrong, and who do they think they’re talking to?

It wasn’t always like this. We never used to have to listen to women speak. It used to be legal to hit them with a frying pan, or water-board them in a vat of warm piss. We miss those days.

For some enlightenment on the subject we have to journey back to pre-Enlightenment times, and to a man named Institoris who wrote a medieval guide to identifying and prosecuting witches. I’ll quote the preface in the Malleus Maleficarum, which reads:

Wooooooooooooooo Bo-dy Fo-horm, Body Form for yoooooooooooooo!

Why is the treachery which leads to the practice of harmful magic and all that entails found more frequently in women than in men? Institoris lists women’s usual weaknesses – they are backbiting, vengeful, lascivious, impressionable and intellectually inferior (those are the GOOD ones) – before saying that wicked women (the qualification is important) are particularly ruled by three moral failings (just three?): infidelitas (defined as a lack of adherence to the probable truth of the reality of things invisible – you know, like men’s faults) ostentation and lust.” 

I don’t think there are many here tonight who would disagree with those sentiments. Most of this can probably be attributed to hormones, with the emphasis on moans. Yes, hormones, and the dreaded ‘P’ word, that only five men in the history of the planet have been brave enough to utter. 

Periods are like the Kaiser Soze of biological processes. The greatest trick that women ever pulled was in trying to convince the male world that periods didn’t exist. So when a woman, light and electric from blood loss and mood imbalance has stabbed you through the heart, ripped it out and fed it to you – recognise this, men: it’s your fault. 

‘Flesh, chocolate. It’s all the same to me! Nomnomnomnom!’

Anyone who’s ever worked with a group of women knows that, as a group, they’re a deadly force to be reckoned with. Throw a puppy into their midst, and get ready to make dog soup with the bones. Women working in packs are like piranhas, but with better shoes.

And then there’s the connected danger and mystical horror that is cycle synchronisation. Like when the planets align and some evil wizard uses the formation to open a Gateway to Hell. Cycle synchronisation is like a Mexican wave of hatred.

‘All this fuss over a few fucking shepherds?’

Western culture has fooled us about women. We’re raised with the image of the nurturing, peaceful mother. The kind with big loving bingo wings that would make a flying squirrel grey with envy, and a pendulous, blobby bosom that could double as a wrecking ball. A lot of people, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, believe that if women were to rule the world it would be a happy, fluffy, lovey-dovey place with no war, struggle or strife. Then along came Margaret Thatcher. Lacking a heart, Thatcher was all cunt, and the monthly blood flow was suitably redirected. The Belgrano was torpedoed, in a metaphorical sense of course, by Thatcher’s tampon. 

Women cry. This has also fooled men, who equate crying with caring, and also see crying as a last resort, like suicide, or films starring Renee Zellwegger. But crying does not equal caring, because women, rather alarmingly, cry when they’re confused, startled, hopeful, ambivalent, guilty, ticked off, jealous, happy, furious, clumsy, dopey, sneezy and horny. Maybe that last one’s just me. They never actually cry when they’re sad. No, that’s what shouting’s for.

So how did women become so powerful? What went wrong? Women’s faces not being as soft as the hands that do their dishes? Women NOT doing the Shake and Vac to put the freshness back? 

John McCririck’s favourite wanking picture.

We can trace alot of it back to the suffragette movement. Back at the turn of the twentieth century, one woman’s desire to be heard was so strong that she hurled herself under a horse. If only more women would follow this example.

They burned their bras. Why? Didn’t they realise that their resulting bad back would have to be treated by a male chiropractor?

They started to play sports! The cheek. A little tip: stick to gymnastics, or naked jelly wrestling, or we’re not fucking interested.

And now there are women in the military. Great. Whose smart idea was it to teach them how to kill? And will somebody please ask Gordon Brown much it costs to produce Kevlar vests that can accommodate pairs of breasts? Not to mention the expense of military-issue tampons. No wonder they can’t afford any fucking helicopters over there. 

‘Want to see my big vessel, Punk Space Whore?’

They’ve been in space, too. How long before we see a fatal accident due to a woman shuttle-pilot trying to reverse park behind the Mir space station? Women have no business being in space, unless it’s to get shagged by Captain Kirk.

A lot of people say that women are just good for cooking, cleaning, shagging and gestating young. This isn’t true. They’re quite good with curtains, too. But it is true that the new power that women hold, especially in employment, is dangerous.

Allow me to expand.

  • A chick Doctor in Harrogate lost a false fingernail in a man’s lower intestine, causing his bowel to fall out.
  • A female bus driver in Darlington caused a twelve-car pile-up reading Woman’s Own while negotiating a roundabout. The drivers of the twelve cars hadn’t the time to react, as they were all doing their make-up at the time.
  • A female pilot lost control of a Boeing 747 because she was crying about a hungry cat she’d seen in her garden that morning.
  • A female soldier shot half of her own battalion as she stumbled across hostile terrain wearing stilettos.
  • In France, a bint can kill you if she can prove to the court she was on her dabs.

Sobering stuff.

I hope you don’t think I’ve been chauvinist or misogynistic tonight. This is not misogyny. It’s self-defence. Because although we love women – those deliciously mad, sexually-sociopathic Hell-dogs with tits – we must handle them carefully – like bombs, or rabid ferrets. We must love them like blow-up dolls filled with sixty per cent cotton wool to forty per cent sharp but rusty potato peelers.

Let’s raise a glass to the fairer sex.

Here’s tae ye!