There are many rumours about British sex. All of them are true, even the ones that contradict each other.
When it comes to the British and sex, we’re as varied as the rest of you. Some of us like missionaries and some of us dogs; some of us like dogs so much we dress up in fluffy suits and start barking. Some of us enjoy pushing things in, some like taking them out and some like doing the okie cokie although too much shaking it about can somewhat break the romantic mood.
But mostly, when it comes to sex, we like not talking about it. We treat it in a similar way to death. This doesn't mean that the whole family gets together to mourn after it happens (at least not normally,) but rather, although we appreciate it has to happen, and sometimes we're even glad when it does, we'd really rather not talk about it thank you very much. Comedians can make great use of this embarrassment when warming up a crowd. Next time you’re at a posh restaurant stand on the table and shout the word ‘Sex!’ very loudly and you’ll see what I mean.
Because it’s programmed into us that sex is so dirty and sinful it goes without saying that Teenage Pregnancy is on the rise. In fact, if things keep up at their current rate the next generation will be born before their parents. It’s a shame really that we can’t use Chav offspring as a form of currency as the world’s economic problems would be solved in a day.
To solve this the government has come to the rescue. Believing the parents need educating, they've done what the British Government always does when faced with a crisis. They’ve created a TV program about it - Sex... with Mum and Dad. The ellipsis is essential; it’d be an entirely different program otherwise and shown much later at night. For a painful hour, two sexually-deficient teenagers drag their legal guardians in front of a 'sexologist' (surly a more made up role than 'Vice President') who encourages them to speak openly about their sexual worries. The show apparently demonstrates that by talking to your teenagers you can encourage them to have a normal sex life, which means they might be able to keep their depravities to themselves until they are old enough to handle them – around 57 for example. The problem with the show however, is that the parents are too embarrassed to watch it while their offspring, made to feel bad about sex since they first discovered their genitalia, watch anything with sex in the title as a form of rebellion. The whole idea has somewhat backfired. And, with more and more schools relying on practical lessons to engage the interest of the ADHD generation, Sexual education classes are proving somewhat counterproductive.
And so, in the end, the British learn about sex the way they learn about everything else – through practical experimentation, largely involving Shampoo. And they end up, just like their parents, having sex behind closed doors, secretly, privately, rigidly and as quietly as possible so as not to wake up the children. Maybe this is the reason that the British are reluctant to talk about sex. Because, when it comes to sex and the British, there really isn't much to talk about. Sex, in Britain at least, is sex - whatever else you may choose to call it. And, of course, like all four letter words, we’d really rather prefer you didn’t mention it at all...
Unless, of course, you're gay. But that is a story for next time...
Friday, February 1
Anglo Sex-ton
Monday, May 21
P.O.G
Generally speaking there are two types of POG (parents of gays) in the world.
Firstly, there are those who are wonderfully happy with their alternative offspring, tell all their friends about their child’s lover and hold pink parties twice a month. Secondly, there are those who cast their wayward children onto the street, write them out of their will, and burn effigies of them at their weekly Klu-Kluk-Klan meetings.
My parents however are disappointing. Being born again Christians they struggle to balance their godly tolerance with their own feelings, hopes and disappointments. As a result their responses taste like watered-down water.
In short, for a writer, they’re an infuriating lack of inspiration.
I told them about the engagement the other day. In fact, I actually made the effort to ring them up so they must have known something was wrong. And after talking about their Home Improvements and their Grandkids took a deep breath, stopped my knees from shaking and said, “Dan and I got Engaged.’
My mum went quiet for a moment, then said ‘congratulations.’ She no doubt wanted to start talking about the grandkids again, but I felt awkward and asked her to make dad ring me back when he could so I could tell him then hung up as fast as possible.
My dad said, 'oh right?' asked the details, then responded, 'well at least I know you’re with one guy rather than running around after all of them.'
For a moment I imagined myself in a Benny Hill video, chasing in fast motion after same hunky men who were, in turn, running away from me, over the hills into the distance.
Then he changed the subject and told me a joke about a plane crashing in an Irish cemetery.
Maybe they’re happy for me. I can’t really tell. I’m pretty sure they never thought the first kid to marry a man would be their youngest son, and it must be a shock to them to know that after 3 years I still haven’t grown out of this ‘gay phase.’
But like it or not, I do feel a little let down. It would have been so much more dramatic and sympathy inducing if they’d slammed the phone down on me, phoned their solicitor, and started sewing an effigy.