clear your diary for 30 hours, love, we’re having a go at tantric sex

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.

Trudi wondered if it was in yet

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.

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!

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.