Via Ben Goldacre a study into nob size.
OBJECTIVE: To establish if the ‘myth’ about whether the size of a man’s penis can be estimated from his shoe size has any basis, in fact.
SUBJECTS AND METHODS: Two urologists measured the stretched penile length of 104 men in a prospective study and related this to their shoe size.
RESULTS: The median stretched penile length for the sampled population was 13 cm and the median UK shoe size was 9 (European 43). There was no statistically significant correlation between shoe size and stretched penile length.
CONCLUSION: The supposed association of penile length and shoe size has no scientific basis.
The question is: who does the stretching, and how do you decide when to stop stretching? When you hear the first whimper?
Movies, Sex, Writing
Raiders Of The Lost Ark.
Indy has just hooked up with Marion in her bar in Nepal.
Marion slaps Indy. It’s clear they have a romantic history.
INDY: I never meant to hurt you.
MARION: I was a child! I was in love.
INDY: You knew what you were doing.
MARION: It was wrong. You knew it.
INDY: Look, I did what I did. I don’t expect you to be happy about it.
I’d never really considered the implications of this scene before. If I had, I would have assumed that “child” was probably an exaggeration.
But no. It wasn’t.
Kasdan’s screenplay calls for: “MARION RAVENWOOD, twenty-five years old, beautiful, if a bit hardlooking.”
She tells Indy: “I’ve learned to hate you in the last ten years.”
Indiana Jones was banging a fifteen-year old.
It gets worse. Via Linehan, today I found a transcript of the story conference where the three principle creative minds behind Raiders bashed out the ideas that when into the film.
While it’s impossible to judge the humour in which the comments were made, it’s pretty clear they wanted Indy to be a sucker for jailbait.
Lucas initially wanted to go much, much younger.
G is George Lucas, S is Steven Spielberg, L is Lawrence Kasdan.
G — We have to get them cemented into a very strong relationship. A bond.
L — I like it if they already had a relationship at one point. Because then you don’t have to build it.
G — I was thinking that this old guy could have been his mentor. He could have known this little girl when she was just a kid. Had an affair with her when she was eleven.
L — And he was forty-two…
G — He hasn’t seen her in twelve years. Now she’s twenty-two. It’s a real strange relationship.
S — She had better be older than twenty-two.
G — He’s thirty-five, and he knew her ten years ago when he was twenty-five and she was only twelve.
G — It would be amusing to make her slightly young at the time.
S — And promiscuous. She came onto him.
G — Fifteen is right on the edge. I know it’s an outrageous idea, but it is interesting. Once she’s sixteen or seventeen it’s not interesting anymore. But if she was fifteen and he was twenty-five and they actually had an affair the last time they met. And she was madly in love with him and he…
S — She has pictures of him.
Bloody hell, George.
“Once she’s sixteen or seventeen it’s not interesting anymore.”???
Almost impossible to believe, but the creators of some of the most enduringly popular kid-friendly action films of the last thirty years actually conspired to make one of their most enduringly popular kid-friendly action heroes a person who, in 2009, would be burned at the stake as a dirty paedo.
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You’re a man walking down a quiet side street or alley late at night when you suddenly realise that the only other person in the vicinity is a young woman.
She’s alone, nervous-looking, about twenty paces in front of you, and she’s walking in the same direction.
Maybe she’s spotted you, maybe she hasn’t. If she hasn’t yet, she will soon. And when she does, she’s going to assume you’re a rapist.
Perhaps you are a rapist, but you’re on the wagon and/or have one of those police GPS ankle bracelet things attached.
Or perhaps, like me, you’re just a guy who walks way too fast, inherited the gene for shiftiness, and is far too paranoid for their own good.
Either way, the woman you’re rapidly gaining on is well within her rights to assume that you’re definitely going to rape her, even though getting raped by a stranger in a public place is massively statistically improbable.
It’s your duty as a nice guy to put her at ease. But how?
Here are some top tips I’ve picked up over the years.
- DON’T slow down if she’s already spotted you. She’ll be wondering why you slowed down. Is he following me? DO slow down if she hasn’t spotted you yet.
- DO cross the road, if you can.
- DO cough loudly. If she already knows you’re there, she’ll be able to judge that you’re still quite a distance behind her, and she’ll know you’re not trying to be quiet like a rapist would. If she hasn’t noticed you yet, a cough announces your presence so she doesn’t shit a brick when you go sailing past.
- DON’T look at her arse. If she catches you checking her out, she’ll probably break into a sprint moments later.
- DON’T whistle. Only rapists whistle.
- DON’T walk on the wall side of the pavement or sidewalk. Stick to the kerb-side. Rapists walk on the wall side, so they can drag women into alleys or bushes. Every woman who’s ever taken a self-defence class knows this.
- DON’T sweat. Everyone knows that rapists sweat like rapists. Hence the well-known whimsical proverb “sweating like a rapist”.
- DO light a cigarette, if you’re a smoker. A rapist would never light up moments before carrying out a premeditated sexual assault. It’s a waste of a cigarette and, more importantly, would totally ruin the post-coital smoke.
- DON’T adjust your trousers or mess around in your pockets. It’ll just look like you’re trying to straighten out an uncomfortable erection. If, for any reason, you do have an erection, just leave it alone for fuck’s sake.
- DON’T call out: “Don’t worry darling, I’m just walking in the same direction, that’s all.” I did this once when I was drunk and… well, let’s just say it had the opposite effect to the one intended.
- DON’T approach the woman afterwards to ask her if any of the things you just did, like the cough or the not sweating, were more or less likely to make her think you were a rapist. If you do this, she’ll think you probably are a rapist who’s out doing some market research for other rapists or something.
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There’s a radioactive paedophile on the loose. What a gift for the tabloids.
Radioactive Paedo A Threat To Everyone, screams Metro.
What I want to know is: what would happen if he bit somebody?
Could the world get its first paedophilia-themed superhero?
And what would his special powers be?
Magically produces sweets and puppies from his raincoat? Sees through nappies? Erases hard drives with super bursts of electromagnetism from his fingers? Shoots copious globs of KY from his penis? Releases glam metal songs?
I don’t think the police are taking this potential threat seriously enough.
Journalism, Kids, Sex
So who’s the father? The ratboy? The hoodie? Or the foetus?
The terribly shocking revelation that teenage mum Chantelle Steadman may have been fucking half the neighbourhood, and that pixie-faced 12-year-old Alfie Patten may not in fact have sired her first doomed, mewling offspring, inspired me with an intriguing conspiracy theory.
What if this whole story is just a great big hilarious Shannon Matthews style council estate romp, a hastily constructed lie designed to extract money from shoot-first newspaper editors?
It appears to be accepted wisdom that Patten’s shagger dad, who has personally spawned a whole tribe of little bastards, was on the phone to the redtops almost as soon as Chantelle’s waters broke.
The rest of the family are said to be bartering their own “my story” deals as I write, playing on editors’ desires to hand over big a cheque to a chav in order to exclusively condemn “Broken Britain” in a full centre-spread filled with colour photos and 200px white-on-black sans serifs.
The Tories have been getting a fair few column inches in these stories. As the Opposition, they can lay into the social policies in place when these kinds of things happen far more vociferously than the Government.
And many of the papers lap it up. What they report less is that, despite Britain still having one of the highest rates of teenage pregnancy in Europe, the most recent statistics, from 2006, show that this rate is rapidly declining.
Many of the same papers quote people condemning the poor state of sex education for our kids, ignoring other reports that Chantelle had merely forgotten to take the pill that day.
But what if Alfie’s not the dad? What if Chantelle hasn’t got a clue who knocked her up? What if some enterprising family member suggested:
“What about that little dwarf kid you’ve been hanging around with? How old his he, eight? What if we said he was the dad? We could have Max Clifford’s mobile number in our Nokias before we’ve finished mopping the kitchen floor.”
After all, The Sun first reported that Alfie hasn’t even started puberty yet, which one would assume a prerequisite for accidentally inseminating the girl next door.
I so hope this is true.
If the morally outraged tabs are getting played for mugs, even consensually, it would put a whole new slant on “Broken Britain”.
It was cold enough to freeze the nads off an alloy primate, but apparently not the nads off the chav kid, or the flaps off the chavette he was sticking it to, or the miscellaneous exposed extremeties of her two mates who were for some reason watching from a couple of feet away.
It was only 8pm, and in a public thoroughfare, that I last night accidentally witnessed an act of wanton chav procreation.
“Sorry mate,” the male chav said.
“They were just kissing,” giggled one of the inexplicable onlookers.
To be truthful, as I rounded the corner I had assumed he was just holding her hair back while she threw up. That well-known Kama Sutra position.
You just don’t expect to find a young lass getting rear-ended in a public place. Especially not before the watershed.
But it does seem that I have, for the first and hopefully the last time in my life, seen two kids fucking. I didn’t want to, but I did.
What I need to know is: should I call a lawyer?
I mean, I didn’t see it going in or anything, but I find I’m unable to delete the images from my cranial hard drive, and I’m worried that, under New Labour, this may be an arrestable offence.
Politics, Religion, Sex
Like, I suppose, most if not all of you, I have difficulty trying to simulate the mindset of somebody who voted for California’s Prop 8.
If I were gay, I imagine I would have quite a strong opinion on gay marriage. I imagine that I would have voted against the proposition thinking something along the lines of: “Well, it’s not for me. But, y’know, solidarity, sisters.”
As it happens I’m straight. Other than a general fondness for equality, I technically couldn’t give a rat’s ass. I am disinterested, if not uninterested.
So I’d have to ask my gay friend for advice.
“Hey, Gay John,” I’d say. “Do you think gay marriage should be legal?”
“Yes,” Gay John would definitely have said.
“So, I should vote against Prop 8?” I would have asked him.
“Yes,” Gay John would definitely have said.
“Thanks,” I would have said. “You big arse bandit.”
Gay John likes it when I talk dirty to him.
I have difficulty trying to figure out why someone who isn’t gay would vote for Prop 8, amending the state constitution to outlaw gay “marriage”.
The only two reasons I can think of, which are about a billion miles away from mutually exclusive, are: 1) religion, and 2) homophobia.
Gay people: you need to get revenge against these idiots. And I have the perfect solution.
Ban Mormon sodomy.
The Mormons took away your marriage rights. Next time there’s the opportunity to get a proposition on the ballot, take away their right to do the missus up the wrong ‘un.
Prop 8.1: “Anal sex between a Mormon and a Mormon is invalid and unrecognized in California.”
And watch as the fuckers scramble for donations to defeat it.
While the Mormons know precisely what their view of homosexual acts is – gay Mormons have to abide by a vow of chastity – they’re curiously silent on the issue of some hot hetero appendix-tickling.
You know why, right?
They’re all at it every night.
Every senior Mormon is coughing his yoghurt up the wives’ potty slots whenever he gets the chance.
I’m sure that after every primary debate even Mitt Romney couldn’t wait to get out of those magic underpants and give the old ball-and-chain a drive up Cadbury alley. Come on, look at her, Mrs Romney is definitely backwards compatible.
So, come on gays, why should the Mormons get a backstage pass? Start the petition now. You only need to find a million or so Californians with a sense of humour.
You could have it on the ballot by 2016, 2020 at the latest.
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BBC, Comedy, Radio, Sex
“I’m very sorry-worry for, well, everything,” says Russell.
This morning’s statement in full:
RUSSELL BRAND ISSUES BLANKET APOLOGY
Russell Brand wishes to apologise for remarks recently made during the recording of his BBC Radio 2 show, in which he referenced a sexual encounter with the granddaughter of beloved comedy actor Andrew Sachs, on Mr Sachs’ own answerphone.
“It seemed like bit of a larf at the time,” Mr Brand said, “but deary me if I haven’t gone and made a big ninny of meself in the papers all over again. I blame ole Wossy, gawd luv ‘im, leading me astray with that shocking family-size man-sausage pointing at me through his slacks.”
Mr Brand wishes it to be known that his heat-of-the-moment comments were crude and indefensible. Mr Brand genuinely did not intend to cause offence, and offers his sincere, heartfelt apologies to Mr Sachs and his family.
In addition, Mr Brand would like to apologise again for that crack he made about Jonas Brothers at the MTV Awards, and for making that prank call to the police rape investigation hotline.
Mr Brand furthermore wishes to pre-emptively apologise “completely and without reservation” for calling Donald Sinden a cunt at an awards ceremony this Christmas, for daubing the word ‘paedo’ on Leonard Rossiter’s headstone next week, and for the unfortunate hit-and-run which is anticipated to hospitalise Richard Briers some time next April.
Not Gay, Search, Sex
I finally got round to installing WordPress Stats on this blog.
Due to the search referrer stats, I now have an unprecedented insight into my readership.
You’re all a bunch of filthy bastards.
This is what people were searching for yesterday:
ao nang prostitues
gay sex blogs
the joy of gay sex
girls scream aloud
listen to innkeeper do you have room
rial reap sex
i’m a single mother and a full time stud
(siem reap cambodia) (boys prostitution)
send me a real free laptop no money down
naked om beach
siem reap bar girls
hippie girl anklet barefoot nude
I love the fact that that last one has ironic quote marks around it.
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Law, Music, Porn, Sex
For some time I’ve been vaguely aware that England has something called ‘Girls Aloud’.
I recently read about a man being prosecuted under the Obscene Publications Act after posting a story about all five of them having their legs sawn off by an obsessed psycho.
You can find the story here.
Please don’t read it. Seriously. It’s beyond sick.
Plus, it’s almost unbelievably poorly written. Truly dreadful. Straight from the Dan Brown school of erotic writing. It should be prosecuted under the Crimes Against Literature Act.
Even as she had watched the others’ legs being sawed off and listened to their screams a part of her tried to convince her that it couldn’t have been so bad. How wrong she was!
Anyway, the reason I note this story is that I believe it raises some serious issues about the nature of free speech in the age of the internet, specifically in the UK, which is, after all, not subject to the same constitutional protections as it is in the US…
Nah, only kidding.
The reason I note this story is that I just saw Girls Aloud singing on TV for the first time, and while the performance didn’t leave me wanting to cut off their legs, I did just about pull my cock off.
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