Posts Tagged ‘holy grail


Still looking for the G-Spot? Here’s why you can’t find it

Like Bigfoot, the Abominable Snowman or the Loch Ness Monster, scientists are now telling us that the G-Spot doesn’t exist.

This must come as welcome news to anyone for whom searching for the elusive G-Spot has always been, for want of a better phrase, a wild stab in the dark.

Scientists working at the University of Sheffield have revealed there is no evidence to support the existence of the G-Spot which was ‘discovered’ by German gynaecologist Dr Ernst Grafenberg decades ago. My, that must have been a popular degree course.

I always thought a woman’s ‘seat of pleasure’ was a chair positioned in front of The Wire season three, but according to Dr Grafenberg, it’s actually a tiny, nerve-packed area offering a sexual punch second to none.

The search for the G-Spot has been similar to that for the Holy Grail, Noah’s Ark or the key to the shed which was last seen in 1993 near the broken umbrella in the hall; pointless, time-consuming and ultimately fruitless.

Generally, heterosexual men fall into one of three camps – those who pride themselves on being the embodiment of The Joy of Sex, those who read Cosmopolitan once  and think this qualifies them to know what women want and those who believe pleasuring a woman involves buying her a new vacuum cleaner.

The first group will not let you leave their room of seduction until your G-Spot has been found and pinpointed on an exact map of your body which they have covered in highlighter pen and plastered with Post-It notes. Damn it, you are going to ENJOY this sex. Right now!

Youre not leaving until I find out which one of these is your G-Spot

You're not leaving until I find out which one of these is your G-Spot

In fact, this may be how the myth of the G-Spot emerged in the first place.

Bored into a state of almost catatonic compliance, Dr Ernst’s wife suddenly realised that if she pretended he’d hit the internal jackpot then she might be able to go back downstairs and have a nice cup of tea and a piece of shortbread. Little did she realise that she’d condemned the rest of womankind to a lifetime of fruitless excavation with the sexual allure of a smear test.

Group two are by far the most common of the three – during the honeymoon period of your relationship, the bit where you still find the fact they trim their toenails with their teeth alluring, they might make a couple of attempts to get out the compass and ruler to make a cursory search for your ‘seat of pleasure’. Then, showing great common sense, they will give up.

The third category of men would probably gnaw off their left leg before they did anything other than recreate the sex scenes in the BBC’s Walking With Cavemen series. Foreplay for them involves clubbing women over the head and dragging them back to their pile of skins.

Surely for all those smug couples who claim that on the night they discovered the G-Spot a chorus of angels appeared towing a rainbow over the bed, the news that they’ve been getting worked up over an imaginary erogenous zone must come as a bit of a blow.

Personally, I find it hard to get too upset at the G-Spot’s demise, because you can’t miss what you never had, or that no one ever found, or, indeed, bothered to look for with any degree of enthusiasm.

In my experience, the men I have encountered along life’s highways and byways find it difficult enough to find  a huge pack of nappies in a  supermarket; their chances of finding a minute spot of questionable existence without benefit of large signs, helpful assistants and a tannoy system is negligible at best.

By widening the search to a G-Zone, scientists have offered men a fighting chance of being in the right area. Had they broadened the field to “somewhere below the neck and above the knees” it would have been even better.

So the G-Spot is lost, possibly forever. Although of course, you know what will happen now, you spend forever searching for something and then it just turns up when you’re least expecting it. Probably down the back of the sofa.

* The Woman in Black apologises for her two-day absence. The ‘G-Spot Workshop’ took somewhat longer than she had anticipated.


Reasons why NatWest’s new TV advertisement is less sincere than a fox offering a chicken a haircut

NatWest’s new ‘Helpful Banking’ TV campaign highlights the institution’s free, impartial financial advise from Money Sense advisers who have been given in-depth training (for one whole day) about how best to patronise half-wits about how they spend their cash.

In the advertisement, an adviser lurks in a bank lobby like a preying mantis, waiting to pounce on the first poor bastard that stumbles in to use the ATM machine or deposit a day’s takings. It’s easy to spot a Money Sense adviser from the usual person dispatched to the front counter to greet the public – the advisers have spent eight hours learning how to smile, the front counter assistant didn’t earn the nickname ‘Vinegar Tits’ for nothing.

Money Sense advice can be roughly split into three main categories: (1) Unbelievably patronising (2) Insultingly obvious (3) Awe-inspiringly transparent.

A woman who gets pissed on a regular basis and uses her debit card to withdraw more and more drinking money is told to leave the card at home. A man who has been paying his utility bills with carefree abandon for years is told to shop around for a better deal. A grandmother who keeps chickens is told how to suck eggs.

All advice is greeted with a level of incredulity that leads you to believe that the customers in question are being handed the ordnance survey co-ordinates for the Holy Grail rather than a series of blindingly obvious platitudes scripted by five-year-olds.

I fully expect the next advertisement to show Money Sense advisers asking customers if they’ve heard of something called ‘the internet’ or informing them that the moon isn’t made of cheese. The concepts will be so mind-blowing that every customer in the branch will instantly burst into flames leaving only a few heaps of ash and the charred remains of half a dozen Money Sense brochures.

I do not bank at NatWest. I am still smarting over its refusal to give me a china pig money bank in the 1980s because I already had an account at Midland.

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