Things to Never Try in Bed

On Valentine's day, my father shared an anecdote with me. He was in the queue for the pharmacy, and there was a rather twitchy 60 year old man purchasing condoms. The silver speckled gentleman picked up four different packets: Ribbed, Flavoured, (at which point mother quipped, "what on earth do you need flavoured ones for?") Feather Lite and the ever intimidating Variety Pack. The interesting factor in all this, was that the nervous shopper had a look of severe dread on his face and was sweating profusely. It was then that my father noticed the other items: a spatchela, a feathery cat toy and a whisk.

The man mopped his brow before he paid a staggering £50 for his array of culinary items and enough condoms to supply a student at fresher's week. Then, apparently seeing a kindred spirit in my father, gave him a significant look before saying, "fifty shades, eh?".

Valentine's day is so much more than an over-invested marketing scheme to get the public to increase the debts they haven't paid off from Christmas in order to buy all things red. It is a danger to all humanity as the bedroom is no longer a place of sanctuary. It becomes a terrible torture room where your partner demands to "try new things", often involving some heavy S&M and the omission of a safe-word.

It wouldn't be alright, but it would be OK if this odd and potentially life threatening behaviour was limited to one day. But it's not. Due to the freedom of sexual expression, and in part Christian Grey, we can all be subjected to terrible sexual experiences when we least expect it. Now, I like to think of myself as a bit of a revolutionary changer-of-the-world, no biggie. So, the very least I can do is to discourage those of you reading this article who want to try things you saw in a Cuban porno set in a little bay called Guantanamo. Here we are then, things never to try in bed:

Baby Talk

I don't have testicles, so I can't really answer this, so I put it to you, gentlemen: Is there anything more ball shriveling than a girl putting on a high pitched voice and saying, "I want to lick your penie wenie until you cummy wummy on my tummy"? I didn't think so. (OK, apart from what they did with the corkscrew in the Cuban porno.)

I think you'll all agree with me when I say, it's a penis, not a puppy, so don't treat it like one.

Shoe Horns

If you're going to get down and dirty with a sex toy, please let it be created for that purpose. There is no shame in admitting that you have four rabbits (rampant ones, not real ones - although I did have a confusion with a colleague about this the other week. To be honest, I'm still not sure what she was talking about) but there is shame in keeping a shoe horn/cork/bag of carrots next to your bed. 

Penis Names

Little Chris, Conan The Destroyer, Rob the Ruiner, Theo Walcott (cos when he shoots, he scores!) are all ridiculous names for an appendage. In fact, all names for an appendage are ridiculous because, contrary to popular belief, a penis is not a separate entity from a male's body, though it does have a mind of it's own. The only acceptable name would be Princess Consuela Banana Hammock, because at least you can have a laugh reminiscing about Friends before your girlfriend kicks you out and says she never wants to see you again.

Honesty

"That was the most average sexual experience of my life. Can you please cuddle me for fifteen minutes until I start snoring? Then you can let yourself out before my nightly flatulence begins."

"I'm so glad you're a real woman. For a moment I was like is she? Isn't she? And then I was like whoa. But it's cool, you totally have a vagina."

If these statements are anything to go by, and have no doubt gone through someone's mind at some point or another, it's best to keep stum in bed. Mum's the word, eh? Which leads me on to...

Family

Your parents, siblings and pets have no place in the bedroom. Saying, "I think my sister has that bra," is a sure fire way to stop whatever steaminess was hotting up between the sheets. Similarly, no matter how many guys say Daddy Issues are a turn on, just don't say the 'D' word mid, pre or post coitus. Even if you're being 'ironic' because your a hipster (yeah, we know how you all looove that).

Food

Have you ever thought, wow, this sex is so hot, you could fry and egg on it? Of course not, but unfortunately someone has. The egg did not fry, but dried to give both parties a shiny glow. Short term - healthy skin. Long term - you're the couple that thought you were a frying pan.

The thing is, it always seems like such a good idea at the time. The thought of licking chocolate off, well, anything is a largely pleasant thought. What could go wrong with chocolate ice cream? It can smudge on your white sheets leading anyone who sees your bed to believe you have a serious bowel problem. Nice.

Crying

In sex, there is nothing they don't do. Not me personally, you understand, just people in general on the internet and stuff. I'm horrified to say that all of the above things I have suggested never to try, have a dedicated fan base based in America, and a hoard of dirty videos that you have to enter card details to watch. Baked beans, dressing as babies, and all manner of bodily fluids are exchanged between two (or often more) people on the internet, though there is one exception to the rule.

Tears.

A woman getting all emotional as the tip goes in  ruins the mood faster than you can say "hard on". Ladies, if you're feeling emotional, excuse yourself for a moment before going through with the deed. I can't imagine anything more soul crushing than someone else's tears on your penis.

Unfortunately for us, and by us I mean the (cough) sexually active population, we are all going to have a bad experience in bed - there is no escape. And, this list is only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to things to never try in bed. I'm sure each one of you reading this has your own addition, and I'm equally sure that on this long and winding road that is sexual discovery, we all have a lot more to learn about what we never ever want to try in bed. Enjoy!

Why Shopping Hates You

If I have one weakness, other than kryptonite, chubby nerds and tequila, it is shopping. Along with numerous "deal" mailers, I am subscribed to over 20 different shops that email me up to three times a day. Along with requests to choose a Chinese bride ("before it's too late!" most likely due to human rights violation) my Hotmail is often inundated with emails filled to the brim with juicy discounts on popular brands, updates on what Kate wore yesterday, and upcoming trends from unafforable designers. Trends, by the way, that are often so extravagant that I only stare at my screen in wonder before shuddering as I imagine myself in leather trousers, platformed trainers and an Aztec jumper.

These emails often lead to hours trawling online, filling up "imaginary" shopping baskets that I never dare to enter my credit card details into. Despite this, I thoroughly enjoy trawling through my emails, as though in some way I am gaining something by knowing that Jennifer Garner's Golden Globes dress was "too young".

So satisfying, so dangerous.
A bit like heroin. I mean, not exactly like heroin, but a bit.
No?

Now, don't think me shallow. While I will admit that I find glee in online browsing, online shopping and updating myself on what others are wearing that have absolutely no bearing on my life whatsoever, I am aware that I am totally lame. And that makes it OK.

Shopping in the real world, i.e. in the actual shops as opposed to cyberspace, can be daunting, if not overwhelming. I try to limit myself to twice a month, as since cash is a rarely seen commodity, I use my card as if money doesn't exist and it's just a bunch of numbers. (Don't try to tell me otherwise, accountants.)

Jeans shopping is the most hateful kind of shopping. In my trauma of trying on one pair, I bought three so I would never have to come back. However, one can also find glee where one doesn't expect it. I bought a skirt which I tried on without looking at the size, only to find that it is a size smaller than my regular size at Topshop. Ah, thinking about it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. But, this is rare, and so why do we put ourselves through the trauma of hopping up and down in a smelly dressing room telling ourselves "Once I've lost weight/done my hair/can afford a leather jacket - this will look great,"?

Purchase Regret is a common symptom of shopping, and one that all shoppers suffer at one stage or another. A yellow scrunchie? What were you thinking!? And food shopping is no different. Dreaming that you are the next Heston Blumenthal does not make you the next Heston Blumenthal. Buying 8 picture frames to serve pickled foam on is never a good idea, woe betide the person that buys Sea Sounds: A Compilation to accompany them.

Shopping, whether it be online or in store, has an unequivocal hatred for all consumers. It wants them to buy, regardless if they get a crippling self-loathing whenever they see items, untouched, at the bottom of their wardrobe. Tags still on, of course.

The moral of these ever familiar tales? Join a convent, shop only using hard cash or work on that pearly white smile to accompany the smooth lie, "I'm sorry, but it doesn't quite fit.".

Movember? Do go on...

When did beards become cool?

I am loathe to admit that whenever I see a man with a mo, I get slightly weak at the knees (Movember was a good month for me.) But do you remember the days where men that took serious time on their facial hair looked like this?:

The pained precision that went into looking like a complete and utter tool was baffling. So baffling that it has been immortalised forever in the form of Sacha Baron Cohen's Ali G. Hot.

Just slightly off tangent, did you know that Staines officially changed its name to Staines-upon-Thames? Apparently the connotations with the river is equal to less connotations with tracksuit sporting, Corsa driving lads.

Anyway, nowadays, it seems wherever I look, stubble, taches and other facial hair are making a huge comeback. Have you seen that Gillette advert? The one with Andre 3000? If you have - you can take that wistful look off your face now. Precision grooming has fast become the big thing for men around the world. On a recent trip to Scandinavia, for example, it was rare to see a man with no facial hair whatsoever, though perhaps this is simply a necessity, it being so fucking cold.

Let's take a moment now to think of the men around the world who, alas, cannot grow facial hair. Hard to believe but no matter how hard they try, a feeble line of fluff is all that they can manage. I imagine it is rather like having a pen that doesn't work: you have the tools, but something, somewhere has gone wrong.

A delightful trio.

At a time where beards are the height of cool, men who cannot grow them must focus their efforts elsewhere, on, for example, body fitness, dressing well, or volunteer work. Because apparently these days, if you don't have an artful crop of groomed hair on that gorgeous face of yours, you have to have something to set you apart from the rest.

Christmas: Single vs. In a Relationship

Ah, Christmas, we know it well. Having gone through the tidings for 20+ years, we know the drill; family arguments, crappy presents, a dwindling bank account and let's not forget that extra 3lbs that takes 3 days to gain and 3 months to lose.

Is it any wonder that suicide rates double during the holiday season?



Anyway, I'm not one to be depressing during the festive period - I am a Catholic after all - so let's get to the point of this festive article.

If, during Christmas, your mind wonders to that oh-so-familiar opening scene in Bridget Jones "Bridget, you look like you've wandered out of Auschwitz," don't panic.  Christmas doesn't have to be as bad for singletons as years of Richard Curtis films have led us to believe. The reason I feel the need to mention this, is because, I think for the first time, each and every one of my friends is in a relationship. Or at least somewhere between married and dating. What? No embarrassing stories from the office party to regale us with over Christmas drinks? No reviews of the latest must-have sex toy?

Definitely too much filling.

Not this year. This year, we discussed our troubles when eating sandwiches, how sometimes we can't be bothered, and sometimes, when eating a whole sandwich, it can be nauseating, especially if there's too much filling. Sandwich, is of course, a euphemism (there were small children around). What has happened to us?

Single and Ready to Mingle Christmas


When you're single, you can go out clubbing on Christmas Eve, flirt inappropriately with the person you shake hands with at Midnight Mass - "and peace be with you..." - and not have to worry about all the annoyances you have to deal with when you have the aforementioned partner.

The Saturday night before Christmas is the time to dust off that Slutty Santa outfit (oh, come on, we all have one) and pucker up under loose strands of mistletoe dotted around every dingy pub in England. The Sunday after is the time you really regret kissing Ben from accounts, but it's okay because your friends can cheer you up with a mince pie and yet more mulled wine. And you can bet that one of them will have done something more embarrassing than you. (Except if you're me - I'm that girl.)

The PG version of what really happened at the Christmas party.
It's OK. What happens under the mistletoe, stays under the mistletoe.

Okay, so I suppose it can be quite nice to see the Christmas lights, and get a bit romantic after a few glasses of Veuve, but there are definitely some cons to being shacked up at Christmas.

Matching Jumpers Christmas

When you're in a relationship, you have to worry about getting a gift that hits the perfect balance between "I think you're great" and "But please God don't ask me to marry you". You have to get waxed at the time of the year where you're feeling the most wobbly and, to be frank, need the warmth wherever you can get it. You have to go for the mandatory Christmas Drink with his friends who will relentlessly discuss sport and/or The Hobbit while you nod enthusiastically.You have to spend time with his family including his flagrantly racist grandmother who perpetually confuses the word "fork" with "fuck" without even realising it, bless her racially intolerant socks.

By far the worst thing about being in a relationship at Christmas is the expectation. It is such a family oriented time of year, that the relationship you are in at Christmas immediately becomes a "big deal", as that is the person that your parents will remember until next year, vomiting in the shrubbery after too much champagne. Nice.

In the end, it was that glass wine that ruined him. Luckily,
it ruined his jumper too.

The real pain of it is, that everyone single at Christmas wishes they had someone to buy a gift for, someone to snuggle up to in front of a shitty Christmas film and someone to see in the new year with. And as much as we all complain about boys, they are quite nice to have around from time to time, because with all the cons of being with someone at Christmas, there are some cracking pros.

(Excuse the Christmas pun, but I've done so well, give me some slack.)

The 5 Most Bizarre Shops in the World

1. Pope Street, Rome

A while ago, I got lost in the city of Rome. I found myself down a street I'd never been on before and as I wandered along, I saw some distinctly 80s looking mannequins in the window, complete with blue eye shadow, false eye lashes and bright red lips. Thinking that this was the street that time forgot, I had to stop. These mannequins were wearing wimples. It seemed that on my aimless wandering, I discovered the place where priests and nuns bought their vestments. The garish displays were filled with gold and purple and boasted long candlesticks, incense burners and the most beautiful silver goblets. It was the most bizarre row of shops I have ever seen and, I couldn't help it, I got the giggles, which was quickly followed by a severe bout of Catholic guilt. The worst part was, I have never been able to find it since and nor has anyone else I have told about it. The only thing I do know is that my imagination isn’t creative enough to make up a street like this.

Postcards, tobacco and vestments. Just your standard Roman corner shop.

2. The Bone Shop, New York

A great metropolis like New York is bound to house some of the wackiest shops in the world, but this is definitely the strangest shop I have seen. The Bone Shop sells, err, bones, including skulls with the horns still attached. It also sells fossils and insects, and  what’s more, if you’re not taking a trip to NYC anytime soon, bones and other assorted weird things are available for you to buy online. With prices reaching nearly $400, it seems that committed bone collectors are the prime audience of The Bone Shop, which has absolutely nothing to do with Angelina Jolie, sorry to disappoint.

Yep. Bones. And T-shirts that say "My friend went to the bone shop and
all I got was this lousy... Actually, I'd rather the T-shirt."

3. Deyrolle, Paris

While London has many taxidermist shops to compliment the most stuffy of upper-class homes, Deyrolle in Paris plays host to the most bizarre display of stuffed animals in Europe. As if stuffed animals aren’t shivers-down-your-spine-scary enough, the animals that are large enough are wearing human clothes. What’s worse, most of the animals are stuffed in a pose, for example an elephant swinging his trunk, an eagle mid-flight, and even cute white rabbits poised to spring on their hind legs. Deyrolle is by far the most creepy shop in Paris, and is amazingly popular with stuffed animal collectors, yep they exist, and those wanting to bring an edge into their home. Deyrolle will certainly not appeal to everyone, and taxidermy is probably best left in the Bates Motel.

That's a nice, erm, trunk you've got.

4. Trashy Lingerie, Los Angeles

This underwear shop in Los Angeles does what it says on the tin. A favourite haunt of glamour model Katie Price, Trashy Lingerie offers underwear for every occasion, using materials from PVC to pure silk. The thing that makes Trashy Lingerie more bizarre is that fact that it is absolutely exclusive. There is a yearly fee to join up and a celebrity following including Cameron Diaz and Winona Rider, making Trashy Lingerie one of the most glamorous places to go for some not-so-glamorous underwear. Well, whatever floats your boat.

On Wednesdays, we wear pink.

5. The Old Curiosity Shop, London

This London based shoe shop is a far cry from your Office or Kurt Geiger. The Old Curiosity Shop specialises in the unique, the edgy and the downright weird with collections including shoes with cork-stoppers (Big Foot for Smelly Foot) and furry shoes with laces (Hog Toe Cat). It is not only the odd collection of shoes that makes The Old Curiosity Shop so wonderfully strange, it is also the shop itself. According to the shop's website, the building is the original Old Curiosity Shop, as written about by Charles Dickens. The building survived both the Great Fire of 1666 and the Blitz in World War II, making it one of the most durable, as well as historic buildings in London. The new owner, shoe designer Daita Kimora, decided to keep the interior as it was, complete with winding staircases and an innate feeling of stepping back in time. Don't let the bizarre nature of this shop fool you - Kimora's shoes have graced many a Vogue magazine and are very popular amongst the fashion elite.

Say fashion, one more time.

Moving Back Home

I like to think of myself as a generally mentally stable person. A little kooky maybe, but medically and psychologically sane. Over the next few months, my sanity will be pushed further to the brink, perhaps never to return. The very serious matter of which I speak is something that most of us have had to go through, and from which many of us never recover: moving back in with your parents.

It doesn't matter whether you've been at university, been travelling or are suddenly hard up and need to live rent free for while, the effect is always the same; Crippling self loathing and an overwhelming desire to commit murder, ideally involving your parents/guardians and a freak poisonous blow-fish incident. Joke. [Just in case my parents do happen to die in a freak blow-fish incident, this should not be counted as lawful evidence against me.]

What do you mean I'm tasty with Wasabi?

Universally people hate moving back in with their parents and it can be for a number of reasons, and through flawless and thorough research, I have the top reasons (and their effects) below.

All The Questions
They seem harmless, but they're not. This is something that you should always bear in mind when answering a question put to you by either of your parents: there is always subtext. See some common examples below:

Where are you going? = Will you be drinking?
Who are you going with? = Will you be having sex afterwards?
What time will you be home? = How long can I walk around naked for?

Answering without thinking can have serious consequences: "Oh so you will be around to entertain your grandmother while we drink gin in the utility room!" And don't even think that they'll save any for you.

A recent survey, that was definitely not fabricated for the purpose of this article, revealed that the top worst question that a parent can ask a re-mover (one that has re-moved in) is...

Where were you last night?
Your brain goes into overdrive while you think of the right thing to say.

Last night you were dancing on the table at an office function before going to a karaoke bar where you sang your best rendition of 'When a Man Loves a Woman' and eventually wound up at a student flat somewhere in Shoreditch. You missed your last train and had to sleep on a random sofa with a questionable stain on the cushion before vomiting into the funnel you were chugging beer from at 4am.

You're the one in the baseball cap. What were you thinking??

Obviously you don't give the honest answer so you blurt out the perfect answer: "I worked late, went out for dinner with a millionaire potential husband and stayed a childhood friend's house." Or so you thought. [pause] "What childhood friend? Err..." This is the time where you get the "while you're under my roof" speech, usually lasting between 15 and 160 minutes.

Tip: Invent a person who lives close to the office and use them as your excuse for everything. Why are you late? Jim kept me back. Why do you smell of alcohol and it's only 7pm? Jim has a problem. Why did you email me a photocopy of your bottom? It's Jim's bottom. Jim emailed Dad instead of Dan. From my account.

Pay Rent or Pay Your Dues
So you've done the ironing - in prison terms, you've given the tough black guy 200 cigarettes - you can sit back, relax and watch TV, right? Wrong.

I hate to tell you this, but you get buggered a lot in this film.

Until you treat your parents like landlords, i.e. pay them an extortionate amount of money while you sit in a freezing cold room with a dripping tap, you are not entitled to homely comforts you had when you were a teenager. Big Bang Theory marathon on Sunday mornings? Forget it. Ordering pizza at 3am? Think again. There are a whole new set of rules now that you are an "adult" so cough up and move out or contribute around the house for a little slack.

Note: No matter how much cooking/cleaning/crying you manage, conjugal visits are off the table.

Darling, Stay Out Late Tonight
There is one thing that you never want to know about your parents, and that is that they still do it like teenagers as soon as they hear the front door close. So when they want you out the house for 'alone time' beginning the ever familiar sentence, "you're old enough now to know what goes on between a man and a woman when they're in love..." Tell them to shut the front door, grab essentials including paper bag for hyperventilation and vomiting, and - shut the front door.

Three hours should do it.

You're [insert age here] years old!
We've all heard it, from our parents, most often when we're doing something particularly immature like seeing how many digestive biscuits you can balance on the cat's head while he's sleeping. (I defy anyone to beat 6.) It can also hit us when we're doing something a little too mature than they're ready to deal with.

Tip: The perfect retort is: What were you doing when you were my age? The answer will indefinitely be worse than what you're doing at your age (have you seen what drugs they took in the 70s?) and will make them stop and think, for at least a minute.

One thing to remember is that as much as you want to move out/poison your parents, there isn't a day goes by (probably when you're balancing biscuits on the cat's head) that they don't look back on the day of your conception, sigh deeply, and think, "Should have used a condom."

Jumping on the Savilewagon

A year after Jimmy Savile was laid to rest, he went from much loved comic treasure to public enemy number one.

The cause? Groping.

It's a wonder people didn't see it.

Call it sexual molestation, call it abuse, call it what you want, the definition remains the same: unwanted and unwelcome touching by another person in an inappropriate manner.

Being a woman, I have had to deal with my fair share of inappropriate touching, especially on the tube which, as the legends go, is full of perverted men. Only the other week, a man insisted on touching my leg the entire N5 bus route. And what could I do? I was alone, he was drunk and there was no way I could have defended myself if he had gotten aggressive. So I sat there and dealt with it.

And I'm not the only one. Thankfully this is a relatively harmless tale, but women all over Britain fail to report sexual molestation, and even rape to anyone at all, including the police. But it seems there is not one woman in England that was alive in the 80s that is not claiming that they were harassed by Jimmy Savile.

That is not to say that everyone who has come forward is lying, Savile was obviously a lusty pervert, that much is clear. But has it been over exaggerated? The Telegraph actually wrote an article describing how David Walliam's unanswered letter to Jim'll Fix It was, in fact, a "lucky escape" from the sexual abuse that he was bound to have incurred had he been on the famous '80s show. I mean, really. Whether it be the media, or the numerous people coming forward with "the new scoop" on Sexually Savvy Savile, the whole Savile Affair has been whipped into a whirlwind that is exponentially out of proportion.

If true, the recent allegations that Savile abused young girls in hospital, and molested a 9-year-old boy in his dressing room is appalling and something that he should have been held responsible for, gone to prison for, and apologised for. But, unfortunately, it's too late for that.

The Savile Affair is out of proportion, not because the allegations may not be true, but because he was one of many.

As Calvin Harris so eloquently put: it was acceptable in the '80s. That's not to say it was right by any means, but it was accepted, at least accepted enough for those who knew about it to turn the other cheek, and that's why no one came forward at the time. Was it hushed up? Probably. But what does anyone seek to achieve in holding a trial against a dead man?

Busted Obama

The media are wrongly, however inadvertently, painting Savile as THE pervert of the '80s. To behave like Savile was the only one and, more crucially, to behave like it doesn't happen today is a gross misinterpretation. What about all the rest? The rest that are still alive and able to be held accountable for their actions? What about the people that knew about it and didn't do anything? And what about the people who are still doing it today?

The point is, maligning Jimmy Savile isn't helping anyone, especially not those that were the focus of abuse. It was a different time, and the attitudes in 2012 are a lot different to the attitudes thirty years ago. Rather than focus their attentions on Jimmy Savile, the media should instead work towards making the world safer for women and young girls today.

Joking aside, this is a serious problem in the work place with most cases of
inappropriate behavior from a colleague going unreported.

Men today should know that groping is not okay, as apparently, they need to be reminded.

So in summation: Not all men are perverts. But it's not just Jimmy Savile.