More news from my Valentine’s Day gift guide, which has now been published in various media forms (despite its woeful lack of erectile dysfunction health check-ups from Bupa), leaving me at liberty to openly mock it.
One gift I included in the list – after heavy bribery – was Diddy’s latest addition to his fragrance range, the Unforgiveable Woman Bubble Bath.
I admit, my interest was piqued: what, precisely, does an Unforgiveable Woman smell like? Halibut? Wet dog? Another man’s love butter?
The answer, somewhat disappointingly, was: “a delicate fusion of the rarest ingredients: cool citrus and florals inspired by the sun-drenched Seychelles, soft notes of bergamot, orange, neroli, cassis, grapefruit, apple, cucumber and orange”. In short, like the vegetable aisle at Sainsbury’s when the air conditioning breaks.
One should never trust a man who has full-size portraits of himself hanging in his house, as my dear old Nan might have said (she was surprisingly vocal about Mr Diddy, right up until the end).
There are some men whose egos are so gargantuan that you wonder how they ever manage to walk down the street without attempting to seduce every shiny surface their eyes alight upon. Diddy, an ostentatious, self-promoting human parakeet prone to appearing in public wearing a crown, a cape and carrying a sceptre, is such a man.
Anyone who holds press conferences to announce that they’re changing their name from Sean Combs to Puff Daddy and then from Puff Daddy to P Diddy and then from P Diddy to Diddy makes a circus clown look like a credible intellectual.
Of his latest name change he said: “I felt the ‘P’ was getting between me and my fans and now we’re closer. I even started to get confused myself – when I’d called someone on the telephone it took me a long time to explain who I was. Too long. One word, five letters, period.”
Additionally, Puff/P/Daddy/Diddy/Didn’t-He? is a keen supporter of Tantric sex, a form of intimacy which utterly terrifies me on the basis that I barely have time to brush my teeth every evening, let alone commit to a sexual marathon that will forever be inextricably linked to that stool-dwelling buffoon, Sting.
I remember a few years ago, Diddy was in Paris with the mother of his then three-month-old twins and claimed that, after a quick jaunt up the Eiffel Tower (I refer to the famous Parisian landmark, rather than a metaphor for Diddy’s manhood) he and Kim Porter had indulged in a 30-hour Tantric sex session.
Thirty hours. A day and a quarter. Four main meals. Series one, two and five episodes of series three of The Wire.
As far as I can gather, doing it Tantric style is the sexual equivalent of watching paint dry.
Under no circumstances should it be confused with Tantrum sex (after a row), Tandem sex (on a bicycle), Tandoori sex (in an oven), Tangent sex (where you break off in the middle to do something completely different) or Tanked-up sex (generally with someone regrettable), which are all far more enjoyable.
I’m not sure about you, but anything which goes on longer than an hour or so, or overruns EastEnders, or involves missing your tea is a big no-no, especially if the other half of the Tantric time trial is a bloke who can’t even remember his own name
The bubble bath was OK. I didn’t feel any desire to ‘get my sexy on’ as the blurb suggested, but I’d only used it once. By the time I get to the bottom of the bottle, a 30-hour sex session will seem like a quick foreplay session. I shall have to get my assistant to reschedule some meetings – or get video conferencing in the bedroom.