12 Apr

In bed with Sir Alex?

We – when I say we, I mean of course they – have come a long way since the early days of the blow up sex dolls which took so much puff that, once you’d inflated her, you’d no energy left to do anything with her.

I discovered this week that there are now sex dolls – really they are marketed as robots – that you don’t need to blow up: they come fully formed with perfect similitude to the female form divine. And they only cost ten thousand quid apiece,

Sexual cybernetics has made such progress that now these dolls can talk. I read of one which  – who? – speaks “in a soft Scottish accent.” I’m glad they said soft. You wouldn’t want to fork out £10,000 to find yourself waking up next to Sir Alex Ferguson, would you? You’d need subtitles in English. Anyhow, we’re spoiled for choice because her voice can be customised as that of anyone you fancy. I think I’ll forgo speculation here and leave it to my readers, if any.

Now, it’s one thing having a doll that talks, but quite another thing her having something to say. I imagine having retired with my lady automaton to discover that, just as I’m stirring myself into action, she says: “You know Peter, that damp patch on the ceiling is getting to be a real eyesore.”

Roll over and she continues: “I hear Fred Arkwright’s missus has run off Elsie Thirkettle’s old man.”

The manufacturer’s blurb says, “She will, on demand, get moody, jealous, insecure or throw a strop.” They will even sell you one that can feign a headache.

Topics of conversation can be tailored to your preferred pillow talk. I wouldn’t mind one that could discuss the Aussies’ ball-tampering, but with my luck I’d probably end up with a Remoaner in a perpetual sulk who yapped on all night about the glories of the Common Agricultural Policy  in a voice like Michael Heseltine’s.

Some blokes go in for verisimilitude in a big way and take their mechanical molls for dinner in posh restaurants. I read of one chap who took her shopping for knickers in Oxford Street. Another took her along when he wined and dined his wife.

Thankfully, the sex-robots are fully compliant with so called British Values. I mean, there’s no sexism here, no homophobia and no transphobia: for the robotic lovelies are bisexual, fully AC/DC  and swing all ways.

“I’ll do something about that damp patch in the morning, Sir Alex: so just stop nagging will you or I’ll hide your oil can!”

04 Nov

The Ladies Misbehaving

Michael White is that rare – perhaps unique? – thing: a lefty with a sense of humour. His political articles and sketches in The Guardian have been making me laugh for decades. But this week Michael was not joking.

He was a guest on BBC Radio Four’s The Media Show, hosted by Andrea Catherwood and of course the subject was the “inappropriate behaviour” of the naughty MPs and so many others that Andrea wondered if to our concept of institutional racism we should add  institutional sexual misbehaviour. This was when Michael roughly interfered with the feminist, politically-correct prejudices of the BBC.

He said that inappropriate sexual behaviour was not exclusive to men but that “Clever, attractive young women can play the power game too.”

Outrage was swift and violent. Andrea expostulated – which is a polite way of saying she went into full bollocking mode: “D’you mean to say these women are at fault?”

Good grief! Didn’t Michael understand that he was talking on the BBC where it is an article of the severest dogma that women can never be at fault?

No, he didn’t understand or, brave man, he didn’t care. He said, “I’m going further than that. I’m saying women too can be predators.”

He spoke the truth – however unacceptable to the politically-correct establishment. We were given an example only this week of a woman prominent in society exhibiting inappropriate sexual behaviour. Kenneth Branagh reported that Dame Judi Dench had exposed herself to him backstage. Poor Ken, I understand he’s still receiving counselling for post-traumatic stress disorder!

Moreover, Michael didn’t merely speak the truth: he spoke the universal truth that there have always been women sexual predators. I don’t suppose they read the Bible much at the Beeb, but they might make a start with the story of those two randy young tarts the daughters of Lot who got their father drunk and took advantage of him: “And the firstborn said unto the younger, Our father is old and there is not a man in the earth to come in unto us after the manner of all the earth. Come, let us make our father drink wine and we will lie with him” (Genesis 19: 31-32).

Well, if they haven’t read the Bible, surely they have glanced at bits of bawd in Chaucer and Shakespeare – to say nothing of the misconduct of some of the Borgia ladies. I won’t get on to the psychopathic predations of such as Rosemary west and Myra Hindley.

Even nice girls have been known to lay hands unseemly on men and boys

My first job out of school was in a textiles warehouse in Leeds. My bosses wanted me to gain experience and advancement in the trade, so they sent me on a week’s course to the cotton mill in Barrowford, near Nelson in Lancashire. Here I came across a most unladylike custom. When a new lad, aged fifteen, started at the mill, the girls would leave their looms and shuttles, womanhandle him into the ladies and black his balls with boot polish.

I rush to add that I don’t think even Andrea Leadsome in all her fury at Michael Fallon would have bent so low as to smear the former defence secretary’s scrotum with a coating of Cherry Blossom

Quite posh girls have been known to misbehave. In my late teens I worked in the stats office at the Ministry of Labour. In those days before computers, all official letters and documents were typed by young women specially employed for the task. I would be sent down from the third floor to the typing pool on the first floor, there to enter on a scene so intimidating I nearly dropped my documents and ran straight back up the staircase, In the scented haze, thirty or forty miniskirted nubile females sat at desks in ranks. When a man opened the door, the clattering keys would cease and the timorous visitor, if he was a handsome – or even a passable – man would be ogled and whistled at.

At my theological college I quickly learned to heed a word of warning concerning the lecherous assistant cook and housemaid, “Don’t let yourself get talked into shelling peas with Celia!”

Sexual misconduct has always gone on and it always will even if Mrs May  passes a Bill for the Abolition of Original Sin. So let’s ditch the shock and mock horror and get on with the serious business of running the country.

I am just a little concerned to know whether Michael White got out of that BBC studio alive 

03 Nov

Look on these things and laugh

There was a spectacular sunrise over the sea this morning in Eastbourne, so I got out of bed early and, with as much cheerfulness as I could muster, prepared myself for another day in the asylum. It’s getting so you daren’t open the newspaper or switch on the BBC propaganda machine for fear of cracking up completely and running out into the street shouting, screaming and foaming at the mouth.

What’s new? The defence secretary has resigned because fifteen years ago he placed his hand on a woman’s knee. Even the woman – described of course as “the victim” – said it amounted to nothing much. It is alleged Mr Fallon also gurgled suggestively in Andrea Leadsom’s ear, perhaps with a view to some hanky-panky. Getting suggestive with Andrea Leadsom? Like cuddling an icebreaker. Well, I suppose a defence secretary ought to display some courage.

Someone else whose name I forget – they are all so damned forgettable, these persons-of-note and celebs – has apologised because forty years he spoke to a woman “in a funny tone of voice.”

The madness of modern society is produced by politicians and the media who vigorously sexualise every aspect of our lives – children from the age of five get early training in sexual deviancy – and then affect surprise and outrage when people behave in a frisky fashion

Don’t worry. it will pass. The “inappropriate behaviour” syndrome will go the way of the “every egg is poisonous” proclamation and mad cow disease. In other words, it’s a fashion, a nine days wonder. Before it dies out though, it will have to go through its utterly bonkers stage. In fact we are reaching this stage now – the day when anyone who has not been chatted-up or mildly molested – that is has not been accorded “victim” status – will feel feel socially excluded, a pariah.

But while this latest nonsense is running its course, it is doing a hell of a lot of serious political damage. Brexit is in crisis. The world teeters on the edge of nuclear war. The global Islamic insurgency gathers pace. Immigration remains out of control. Meanwhile the Marxist Corbyn – friend of Hamas, Hezbollah and lately of the IRA – prepares his government in waiting, all unchallenged

The only response from the prime minister is to thrash about like a fish escaped the landing net.

Theresa May is so comically, so pathologically, incompetent that she dare not fortify her political chances by having around her colleagues of ability. Each one is carefully checked to make sure he/she is no damn use and therefore no threat.

That is why we now have her chum Gavin Williamson – of no ministerial experience and knowing nothing of the armed forces – promoted to be defence secretary in place of knee-stroker Fallon.

When we recall the names of those in post-war cabinet office, we can hardly help being impressed – even when the politics of some of them may not be to our liking. There was more than a smattering of ability and panache around in those days.

Churchill’s cabinet in Coronation Year included Eden, Butler, Macmillan, Sandys, Thorneycroft and Brook.

Wilson in 1967 sat round the cabinet table with Stewart, Castle, Crossman, Jenkins and Shore.

Maggie’s gang in 1987 featured Whitelaw, Wakeham, Lawson, Howe, Hurd, Baker, Parkinson, Ridley and Waddington

Now look at Theresa’s pigmies and  toadies: Green, Rudd, Greening, Patel, Williamson and Sajid – “Terrorist attacks are part and parcel of living in a cosmopolitan society”  – Javid.

Look on these things and laugh. But our laughing is only hysterical. The cackling of the madhouse. 

15 May

New! Talking Sex Doll

Got myself a crying, walking,sleeping, talking living doll  – as Cliff Richard used to sing in 1959 when we all still thought he would fall for one from those shoals of frenzied teenage girls who used to throw themselves at him.

Well, thanks to the boundless virtuosity of our technologists, Sir Cliff could now have his wish: a living doll, and especially the talking bit. The sex-boffins have created – no, that’s not right – manufactured – a living doll and they are promoting its distribution with the following exciting sales pitch:

“She offers all the action you could require and small talk too.”

Perhaps it would put some users off if she talked of small things during her ministrations?

I’m intrigued and might be tempted to buy one. But first I would want to know what the little rubber darling is going to talk to me about. It would have to be something interesting or I would only drop off, so to speak. Let me tell you my ideal…

I should like a rubber girl who would pour me a glass of Chablis and give me a ten minutes’ going over on the transcendental analytic – followed by chapter three of Grundlegung Zur Metaphysik der Sitten – by Immanuel Kant (1724-1804). Then I should like her to pour me a second glass and, with her other hand, flick through the pages of my King James Bible and read to me from the Old Testament. All those begats might prove to be an encouragement.

She comes with three speeds: quickie, standard (American regular) and tantric – which lasts for hours and is meant to be a spiritual as well as a carnal experience. So, when you push her (belly) button and turn it to tantric, she speaks gnomic and mystical paradoxes and texts such as “I hear the sound of one rubber hand clapping” from the classic Zen and the Uses of Latex by the Dolly Lama.

She also comes with the warning that the mystical ecstasies of the tantric masters have to be worked up to slowly. You have to start at the bottom. The manual recommends A Table of Kindred and Affinity which, as we all learned in our Confirmation classes, is found in The Book of Common Prayer (1662)

Several passages are offered but beginners are advised not to start with A man may not marry his wife’s father’s mother.

For heightened results you can programme her to repeat that sentence up to – but not more than – 1379 times.

She never gets a headache but you might if you hit the wrong programme and, just as you begin on your third glass of Chablis, she starts reciting the Labour Manifesto.