The current financial climate makes things tough for a lot of people, it really does. Whilst I’m pretty right-wing on a lot of things, even I’ll admit that the current British PM is someone I could do without. It’s tough, sometimes, to remember why Britain can be such a great place to live.
I love the visuals of the place. I’ve never really been much of a sun, sand and sea person. I love the sight of sweeping green valleys and countryside. My friend Pete’s dad lived in Spain for a year and the one thing he missed the most was the colour green. I remember thinking the same thing when I went to Rome: beautiful city with lots to see, yes, but after a few days I missed the sight of fields and trees. I only have to head out on a train away from the city and I instantly remember how nice the countryside in Britain is.
There’s also something to be said for the humour. It’s hard to explain to anyone unless they’ve been to America, as that offers the only real point of comparison. Britons have a wonderfully witty form of humour – I think it comes from the same place as that famous stiff upper lip. That brilliantly dry sense of things that takes sarcasm and goes one further. In somewhere like America, almost everything seems to be taken literally and if you’re a sarcastic Brit it takes some doing to get used to the conversation and to say what you actually mean all the time. I, however, love that Britishness!
I’ve read a few interviews in my time with celebrities who tour and who’ve said that British food isn’t any good. I think what they probably mean is that it isn’t always healthy, but as far as I’m concerned that’s something entirely different! I love traditional British grub like steak and ale pie and fish and chips, all washed down with a nice pint of real ale. You can tell I’m from the West Country, can’t you?!
Ask a French couple about their love making and you’re likely to feel inadequate as they tell you about where and when they like their intimate action. You’ll be left with the feeling that they can’t possibly have any time for work as their life is just one long shag fest!
Italians and South Americans will probably take it a few stages further and reveal the steamy sides of their tempers boiling over into the bedroom, or just behind the office filing cabinets, in fact wherever they feel their blood rising.
Compared to these red hot lovers we good old Brits are just so much more modest.
There’s a fab online pharmacy that makes all sorts of prescription medicines available to you through the internet. It’s called UKMedix.com and a lot of what they supply helps out in the bedroom department if you get my drift. Anyway, they wanted to know a bit more about what we get up to when the lights go down, and so they commissioned a survey to ask us what we like and where.
The UKMedix.com sex survey talked to over two thousand people aged 18 or over about such intimate questions as “How long should sex last?” “How often do you want to be making love?” and “Where do you want to get down to it?”
The most surprising thing is that Brits only want to get it on once a week, on a Saturday night! Come on folks, that’s only fifty practise runs a year, not even allowing for the number of Saturdays when you’ve had a few too many to even recognise each other. You’re never going to perfect your skills. Imagine a footballer only training once a week, they’d never get beyond average.
We wanted our women on top, which is all very well and nice now and then, but you’re not going to pull that off for an urgent release in the lifts at work are you? But then, given that over three quarters of those asked wanted to shag in the bedroom I guess the at work day time adventure doesn’t cross our minds.
11% wanted to get it on in the bathroom. Perhaps that’s the clean ones who’d need a shower afterwards before flopping down in front of the Jonathan Ross show. Now in my book, banging away in the shower now and then is good fun, and if the mood takes you then go with it, but don’t make a habit of it, a bit of padding doesn’t go amiss for frequent love making.
And as for Mr Ross, well we didn’t ask him, but he is relevant as our favourite time was between 10 – 11 in the evening.
Now I know there are no absolutes and in fact a survey will round off the edges of the extremes in both directions. However I can’t help thinking that our cousins across the channel could teach us a thing or two, even if it’s just about getting out in the open air with the thrill of being caught and a stiff breeze whistling up our lovely white thrusting butts.
Oh! And how long do we want to be loving for our Saturday night treat? 23 minutes. I guess for some that’d be a marathon. Not that you should really be timing these things anyway.
Ah Britain. How I love thee, and your lack of loving. Grab a copy of Nuts and you’d think we’d be banging away for queen and country every spare minute of the day. But no, no thank you. We’d rather be drinking tea.
We’re on the M bloody 6. But we should be in the curry house by now, well, in ten minutes anyway. A38M. Passing Aston Villa grown, The Villa! or Shit on the Villa, depending which of the two Brummie teams you care about. I had a couple of accidental sharpeners at home when my mate who has got the dog this weekend came around to pick her up.
So I’m not allowed to drive, that and the fact that I wanted to catch up with mum while I was in the car. We ended up leaving late. Really late. So much for booking a hair appointment for the bird for this afternoon – I used City Visitor to find one in town, but then had to blow them out. No way were we going to get there by five o’clock. Where does Saturday time go?
In the week I have to be organised down to the minute, cutting short meetings that might be going well, just to get to the next one on time. Yet as soon as the clock clicks into Saturday, it all goes completely wrong. I get up late. Loose an hour over a cup of coffee. Stroll up the road for breakfast, but then get to wherever it is only to find that they have already stopped serving breakfast, but the beer is flowing. OK. I’ll have a beer then. And another. And then it’s time to go home to meet Paul to give him the dog but he sees me on the way so we nip into Electrik and have a couple more and suddenly I don’t know where my day has gone and what I ate and where’s my money – but get me to Birmingham quickly cause I want another beer and my mates and some food!
At the weekend we’re heading down the M6 to Birmingham.
Much maligned Birmingham.
Everyone thinks it’s a shit hole.
But years ago I lived there.
Moved up from town with a whole load of other people.
Back then you got paid a lot of money for moving with your job.
And there were no where near the number of benefit in kind taxes involved, hitting you for every little perk that the business encouraged you with.
That meant that there were several hundred people in a city where they didn’t know anyone, but with a budget for dinner every night.
Quickly a good social scene shaped up.
In particular based around balti eating.
And for us Brum was a fabulous place to be.
Being in the middle of the country made it great for getting anywhere else – Bristol in an hour an a half, likewise London (by train) and Manchester and Liverpool – where my girlfriend was at the time.
I made some good friends there and go back whenever I get the chance.
And baltis still feature heavily in our eating scene, ideally those without a license, so the boys can take a couple of cans of Special Brew and quickly descend into incoherence and the volume goes up and up and the swearing until the waiter, or a shocked Dad has to come and ask us to calm it all down a bit.
We’re going on Friday.