Wednesday, 9 July 2014
Sex lies and gimme a break!
You lot are disgusting; sex mad you are. For a supposedly advanced species it is grossly disappointing how obsessed you all are with the manufacture of multiple-backed beasts. Quite frankly it’s a disgrace and if I was your maker I would be face-palming and boiling up the next batch of man wax from which to fashion Humans 2: The remake. If he has any sense, this time round he will settle for reproduction by simple agamogenesis, avoiding all necessity for the messy transfer of bodily secretions. A quick cell division and back to the job in hand… as it were.
Meanwhile, here on primitive planet 2014 intimate congress, bidden or otherwise, is (as ever) all over the airwaves and nothing has changed in my lifetime save for the focal point of the discussion. In the seventies it was ‘how often do you do it?’ the tabloids doing their utmost to undermine British manhood with the outrageous lies claiming the average married coupled engaged in, er, coupling three times a week. It was almost like you were being goaded into getting some. Today though, it’s “How in the hell was he allowed to get away with it?” Make your bloody minds up.
Under-age sex, five-times-a-night sex, three-in-a-bed sex, gay sex, straight sex, deviant sex, paedophilia, necrophilia, coprophilia, bondage, sadomasochism, auto-erotic asphyxiation, tea-bagging, double-bagging, dogging, shagging… gagging for it, you are. You can’t pick up a newspaper without somebody shoving it in your face or down your throat and I have to say it leaves a nasty taste in the mouth. For as long as I can remember, other humans have delighted in revealing who did what with whom, to whom, in whom or even at whom. Yet all of a sudden, when attention turns to Westminster and the Leon Britton business, they wheel in a hundred-and-fifty-year old Baroness with Jimmy Savile’s face and a selective memory loss to cover it all up.
I wish they would cover up. I never did subscribe to the fascination the British have with public revelations of private goings-on. We should bring back the fictionalised Victorian attitudes, I reckon and put sex where it belongs – behind closed doors. No more ‘intimate’ s.i.g.i. movies on YouTube, no more public displays of animal rutting in drunken streets and chip shop queues, no more social media awash with penis pics, tit pics and Vines of summer festival coitus publicus; put that pecker away, I say!
The urge to shag anything that breathes may be a strong one but so is the tug of gold and the lure of privilege and power; where there’s a primal urge there’s a blackmail plot in the making. Honey traps have long been a modus operandi of those who would bring down an administration. So, far from praising manifest virility we should disdain those who succumb so readily to such base longings and instead laud those who can show restraint; it’s surely not too much to ask is it?
Pas devant les enfants!
Or maybe we should just fit public appointees with chastity belts? Until we manage to breed a better type of human – models of restraint, like me – it would seem unwise in the extreme to assume we can trust anybody in office to keep their pricks in their pants. I just don’t understand why it should be that hard. Oh…