Cars through to cocks...
Being the owner of a fully functioning cock leads to a few common misconceptions among those without the meat and two veg swinging about between their legs. Yep, I’m talking about the ladies (and possibly eunuchs, though you don’t meet many of them on a day-to-day basis in the squalid little part of North London I call home).

So it’s time to set the record straight.

Firstly, because I have testicles this does not, in any way shape or form, mean I have a fucking clue how to get your car to start if its knackered. Occasionally in the past I’ve been asked by various people of the tit-and-cunt persuasion to have a fiddle about under the bonnet of their clapped out old Ford or Fiat in the vein hope that my innate manliness – possibly coupled with the fact that I piss standing up – will somehow magic the fucking motor into starting. But, like a prize fucking tit, I will somehow find myself stooped down in the early morning freezing fucking cold prodding at a shitload of rubber-coated wires, some metal bits and bobs, and something that looks like an oversized metal liquorice allsort in the vein attempt not to let my sex down. Ladies, I don’t even fucking drive. As far as I’m concerned cars run on ‘voodoo’ or perhaps ‘the force’. Please, don’t ask me to fix your fucking cars in future.

Secondly, if we’re settling down to do a bit of satellite TV surfing, please, please, FUCKING PLEASE!!!, don’t assume that as the man it is written in fucking law that I’ll be in charge of the remote control. I really don’t need that responsibility. I’ll only end up settling on some dodgy episode of Sexcetera where some scantily clad Eastern European babe will bang on in broken English about how many ping pong balls she can fit up her flute. You won’t like this. You’ll start a row. So, in future, take the awesome fucking responsibility of what we’re going to watch away from me. We’ll sit and watch the knitting channel – I really don’t give a shit. The chances are I’ll be so traumatized from spending an afternoon sat in a pub with you and your mate while you discuss your periods in the style of Hostel, that I’ll probably welcome a spot of light and insightful speed crocheting.

Thirdly, if my footie team gets hammered 5 – 0 in the Cup, don’t see this as something petty. Don’t view this as a mere trifle you can rip the piss out of me over. I need time to mourn and mope in the style of someone who’s lost a sibling in a terrible boating accident. Remember, I’ve had a relationship with my footie team for thirty-four long, torturous years. We’ve been through the bad times, and we’ve been through the even worse times. You – on the other hand - have only been on the scene for a couple of years. And – unlike footie teams – I can switch allegiances and change to a new girlfriend without leaving a terrible, indelible stain on my conscience that would keep me awake at night (that’s if I could ever be arsed).

Finally, let’s talk about cock size… Why? Because ever girlfriend I’ve ever EVER had has always, at some point or another, talked about the size of their previous boyfriends cocks because, apparently, this is a topic of conversation that might actually interest me. I really don’t need to know if your previous boe was hung like a T-Rex or a baby new potato. I don’t need to know if his shaft veered off to the right or left. I honestly couldn’t give a flying fuck and telling me about it doesn’t make us an enlightened modern couple of the 21st Century… it’s just a little creepy. I mean, would you like it if we turned round to you and said: “Hmm, you’ve got a tight flange… but I’ve had tighter…” Or: “I used to go out with a girl who’s clit bizarrely always tasted like Worcester sauce.” Or even: “You’ve got the nicest labia I’ve ever seen in my life. It looks like a meat cauliflower down there and I fucking like it!” No. This will not do. This will not do at all…

Sexism… Bollocks to it… Time for a new question, shirley???
( SpankyHanky, Mon 4 Jan 2010, 13:39, 3 replies)

Guessed it was you from the North London bit
The cauliflower and worcester sauce bit made me knock my mug of tea over.
Have some clickage*
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Mon 4 Jan 2010, 13:45, closed)

Worcester sauce, eh?
Do you still have her number?
(MrOli is ugly, but in the morning you will be sober, Mon 4 Jan 2010, 15:40, closed)

Regarding your third point...
Oh fucking yes! Mrs Number5 insists on repeating the mantra 'Don't worry, it's only a game, you'll get another chance to win next time.' Even my eleven year old has to be restrained from stabbing her and he isn't anywhere near as violent as me. Clickage for your home truth telling.
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Mon 4 Jan 2010, 18:01, closed)