One of those comedy funny songs by Asian-American comedienne Jenny Kwok, who wins kudos points because:
Aug 30
So David Duchovny has just been admitted to a clinic for sexual addiction, joining a list of other male Hollywood celebrities who have admitted to a similar condition, including Michael Douglas and Russell Brand.
But at least these people could presumably get sex from wherever they wanted. I mean, Duchovny’s married to the gorgeous Tea Leoni, Douglas to the beautiful Catherine Zeta Jones.
What happens if you’re ugly, poor *and* have sexual addiction? Or is it something that only rich handsome men (poor them!) seem to get?
Apparently, British women thinks blokes called Dave are the most well-endowed. Which ought to be good news for David Lloyd.
Fortunately, Mark Boulton, James Cridland, Mark Thompson and Mark Byford would seem to have nothing to fear either. (Wonder what goes on at BBC executive meetings…)
This blog post is brought to you because there are tons of things I do want to say, but summoning the energy to say them in a vaguely cogiscent and amusing manner fails me at the moment!
May 16
A spurned wife stabs another woman for having an affair with her husband. So far, so relatively mundane. But if it was in America, the court case would be full of screaming women.
This court case is in Cambridge, UK. The husband is 58. The wife is 61. The “other woman” (the one who was stabbed) is a 44-year-old Cambridge student. And hadn’t seen the husband for three years, according to her defence. To whit, this delicious quote:
I somehow doubt you’d get that kind of quote in a similar court case in Harvard or New York…
It’s amazing how the same story can be described by some people as romantic, and by others as cliched. So with that warning in mind, as New York freezes in the snow (lucky New Yorkers! how I love snow!), let me tell you a tale that may warm the bosoms of your heart. Or send you heaving into the nearest bar.
It’s October 2005 in New York. It’s a special day for Miss R, so I’m pulling out all the stops. I’ve even changed my underpants.
Scouring the Internet, I noticed that as part of their Valentines Day promotion, play247.com are suggesting that for the man in your life, you buy him the James Blunt CD/DVD for Valentines Day.
This strikes me as the most insane idea for a present since I was once given three Red Dwarf calendars in one year simultaneously, simply because it’s a man singing songs about love. Especially because it’s a man singing in a high-falsetto voice about love.
Heterosexual men would, by and large, much rather hear women singing songs about love, especially on such a romantic occasion. Maybe some K.T. Tunstall or Joss Stone if that’s your vibe. But you don’t want to hear men singing at the tops of their voices about love. There’s a reason why most fans of Westlife and Take That are male.
Of course this gets into the thorny issue of what you do buy men for Valentines Day. Got any ideas?
I’m at a small but elite party where the great and good have gathered.
There is a beautiful woman. A bit skinny but tall, elegant and by God, she has a smile that could sink a thousand ships. And hearts probably too. The fact she’s wearing a costume that sparks off visions of my very own Leela (and skimpier to boot) in my head can’t be bad either.
So, there I am. She’s smiling at me. My heartbeat goes up slightly.
Then she comes over. To me. I can’t believe it. My heartbeat is getting erratic at this point.
She says: “Oh there you are! I was looking for you earlier!”
And she gives another killer smile and looks in my eye. My heart is probably nudging my rib cage to see whether a jump out of my chest is possible, while as nonchantly as I can, I squeak “oh really?”
She says: “Oh yes. Come and sit down.”
and somehow, my heart takes time out from testing the strength of the rib cage to help move my legs over to the comfy sofa.
She sits, turns to me, gives me another mega-ton killer-watt smile with the beautiful bright big eyes, and says to me…
Read the rest of this entry »
Jul 12
We don’t get to say this very often in the UK – although it’s starting to happen with alarming regularity – but it’s just too damn hot. Which means my hormones are going a tad bonkers, principally because:
- the fans are on. Which means any woman stepping into the office suddenly brings with her a gust of gorgeously moist cold air, and her hair billowing in the breeze like a Mariah Carey video
- she’s also usually wearing a tanktop and a skirt, like Beyonce Knowles.
Why is it though, when it is hot, women have a multitude of options for wearing clothing that leave just enough to the imagination, but also manage to keep them cool, collected and sweat-free? Men, on the other hand, have one of two options:
- T-shirt and shorts. Except the T-shirt will stick to your back, and the shorts will expose your knobbly knees, pale white skin and hairless legs
- Tanktop and shorts. Except you look like a redneck wifebeater. Or even worse.
- Just shorts. Which has all the problems with shorts, and the added problem of showing off your hairy armpits, flabby chest and will also probably get you booted out of the office.
The cycle home will mostly be spent trying not to ogle women joggers on the riverbank lest I cycle into the river – although that would at least refresh my sweat-soaked skin – before I go to every supermarket in Cardiff in a futile attempt to find some ice cream.
And to think I’m going to Egypt in just over two weeks. Where it’s twice as hot. Literally.
These are posts categorised under Dating
