I'm joining the world of BritSex

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The Independent Culture
GIANT JUICY jug stunna phwoar boobies phwoar bonk todger todger TODGER! Not only that, but Fifty cigarettes and a bottle of vodka FOR EVERY READER!!! Our girls go NAKED ROUND BRITAIN!!!!! Phwoar! Mad for it! Phwoar! Phwoar! PhwTHWACK.

Thank you, nurse. Sorry about that but what happened was, I bought a copy of the Sunday Sport and, well, you know how it is. Bosoms. You know. Big bosoms. Giant jug stunnTHWACK! WHOP!

Oh dear. It's just that, well, my life has been changed by the Sunday Sport and I would like to offer a big, big, whopping, steaming, plunging, rock-hard "Thank you" to its publisher, something from Essex called "David Sullivan" who I remember, years back when I was still deeply moved by such things, as the eminence minuscule behind a series of porn scams of staggering brilliance. Intricate, carefully worked-out, they were clearly the product of a tremendous entrepreneurial mind, and how they worked was, you sent your money off.

Good, wouldn't you say? But now "David Sullivan" has done good. His old mam must be proud, because what he has done is shine a brilliant light right into the depths of BritSex and I, for one, now know myself for what I really am, and what it's all about.

I've always thought you could tell a lot about a culture from its mass- market porn. If so, we're in trouble, because ours isn't even about sex. What it's about is bosoms. Birds with their bosoms out. Not doing anything with them, you understand; not grooming them or plumping them up or whatever it is that women do to their bosoms in the privacy of ... where is it women go when they haven't got their bosoms out in the Sunday Sport? Dunno, but they must go somewhere, wouldn't you say, right? I mean, you don't see them down the pub with the lads, right? Anyway, there they are, bosoms out, and it's a bit of a shock to some of them, judging by the way they're looking at them. Bit of a shock to me, too. I always thought that bosoms were ... well, sort of optional, as far as sex goes. Rather silly, really, unless they're part of someone you fancy, and then it doesn't really matter because it's just part of the whole package, along with ideas and history and prejudices and weaknesses and cellulite and habits and everything else.

How unreconstructed of me. How suspiciously ... European. But all that will change. From now on I will spend my substance on telephone sex-lines offering strange delights - "Call now for the ultimate in Bum Tricks, You'll be amazed" - which fail to materialise. I shall write in to the Play Mates section (terrible hags whose advertisements for No Strings Adult Fun all seem to have been written by the same person; a failed advertising copywriter, perhaps), who are of course imaginary. I shall send off for the "Humping Pumping Babe Video Bonanza". I shall, in short, join the world of BritSex, where nobody ever gets it. What matters is bosoms, because bosoms are compensation. Compensation for what? For never getting any sex. Why do we never get any sex? Because the only thing we can think about is bosoms, which are a compensation for not getting any sex. Bosoms and lager, and sport and the lads. Todger! Stunna! Phwoar.

The great relief of it all is that little David Sullivan, for all his porky little tum-tum and his ... well, his "face", and his henchmen, and the rough, rough scrubbers at his nightclub table (I've seen them, and you wouldn't, believe me, not even for free), has found a way of reconciling the average Sunday Sport reader to the fact that he's never going to get what he sees in the Sunday Sport. It's a brilliant trick, almost on a par with the Christian scam of persuading people not to mind that their lives are hell because it's going to be all right once they're dead. Show them the stunnas, but make the stunnas so utterly un- or even an-erotic that they just become an adjunct to the pub. Reduce them each to a bosom and they become, not objects of yearning desire, but something to push around the lager-sodden table, like pork scratchings, fags and lad-mags. It's a self-contained universe in which what appears to be a celebration of the libido is really an anaesthetic, promoting drop-jawed docility.

I want to be part of it. I want to help little "David Sullivan". This way, happiness lies. Leave eroticism to the foreigners. What we want is bosoms. Tits! Stunnas! Giant 44HHHHH juicy jugs! Whoppas! Nurse! NURSE!