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
Friday, January 25
Sex on the Blog
I think about sex a lot.
As a homosexual, homophobic, red blooded mammal of the male variety, it comes naturally.
For example, if I converse with a man about, say, the weather, it's essential to put up a front, allowing them to see me either as a perfectly harmless straight bloke, or as gay as an Enid Blyton picnic, depending on what they find acceptable. (Generally, I choose the former; acting excessively camp makes me want to take myself outside and beat myself up as an example to others.) Woman, however, are less fussy about that kind of thing, and I can discuss the current meteorological situation with them without first having to check my belt buckle is facing the right way, or whatever daft system homosexuals are using to 'identify themselves' these days.
So it helps to be aware of sex. That way, I can avoid going up to the wrong one and mentioning Madonna.
As to the other kind of sex, I try not to think about it. It's said that men think about it all the time, but that's not true. We think about it at set times, once or maybe twice a day at the most. The rest of the time we're too busy deciding what channel to flip too during the ad breaks.
And I certainly don't write about it on this blog. This is probably to my downfall; sex sells, and he's a much better salesman than I am. Just having the word sex on this blog will increase my Google score tenfold, and if I include the words 'slut' and 'porn' (or 'Pr0n' or whatever the devil the kids call it these days) I'd have the top ranking site for months. But sex is taboo here. You see, my family read this blog and talking about sex in front my family would be like chatting about Chinese box kites to a Pro-Wrestler. It's just not the kind of thing that comes up in conversation.
In fact, the entirety of my sexual communication with my parents came, quite appropriately, during one of our traditional weekly bible studies, a tradition, which if my memory serves me, lasted for about 6 weeks. (Of course my memory has never served me once, not even so much as got me a beer from the fridge. But I digress...) We were reading one of those family friendly passages that mentions harlots and sodomy and other such wholesome things when, an ignorant child, I asked what a prostitute was.
My dad sighed.
"A prostitute,' he said, 'is someone who has sex for money.'
I nodded wisely. To my immature self, sex simply something enjoyable and extremely naughty, I couldn't think of a better job. It was fun, exciting and profitable. So naturally it was easy to see why God hated it.
My sister pushed a bit further.
'He doesn't know what sex is, does he?'
Now of course I knew what sex is. We had books in school which described the reproductive rituals of Daddy and Mummy robot in great detail. Sex, as far as I was aware, was a kind of horny metallic struggle.
Under pressure, and seeing a chance to embarrass my parents, I shook my head.
My dad turned peach. 'Surely you know what sex is?' I shook again causing him to increase several notches to Virgin red. My mum, realising that if this went much further my father would clash with the curtains, stepped in.
'Sex,' she said, 'is when mummy and daddy get together to make a baby,’
And with that, my dad turned back and carried on reading.
And that was that, the entirety of my sexual education. In a way now, I'm glad they didn’t teach me the ins and outs of reproductive sex. It would have been quite a waste of their time. And so I don't talk about sex on this blog. I wouldn't want to force my family into admitting I actually know about it....
But there's another reason sex is Taboo for the Freelance Cynic, one that I'll serve up for your lustful pleasure next week. It will take me at least that long to gain enough courage to talk about the filthy topic again anyway.
After all... I'm British.
- Si-Kick - My Predictions for 2008
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- Taking note - Or my Static Obsession