Thursday, 03 September 2015

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No sex please, we’re British and prefer our petrol

A report out the other day informed us helpfully that Britons are more worried about petrol prices than they are about their disappointing sex lives.

What’s surprising about that little nugget is not that it may or may not be true – I know it is; I worry a lot about the price of petrol – but why it should matter enough to be spelled out in a national report.

Of course people stress over petrol.

Petrol’s important. It makes cars and buses go, drives your Sunday roast to the butcher’s shop, gets us to work and takes worried minds off the many and various disappointments in hum-drum love lives.

Sex? Well it has no bearing on the price of a loaf of bread does it?

Sex doesn’t put a fiver on your weekly groceries shop.

You don’t get a voucher for it when you spend more than £50 at a supermarket checkout.

So, get real guys. Credit us with some intelligence. We need petrol.

In truth, that ought to be all there is to say on the matter but of course it isn’t.

We’ve all noticed, I’m sure.

Sex creeps into everything now – or everything that doesn’t involve Cheryl Cole’s career-limiting accent anyway.

Interesting woman, Mrs Cole.

The openly-critical talent judge has been critically judged as openly wanting in talent and she’s screaming blue murder.

At least I think that’s what she’s screaming. It’s sometimes hard to tell.

“I’m sorry but I’m sending you home,” the American talent judge told her. And she went ballistic.

It’s a good job all X Factor hopefuls don’t go on that way when they’re dumped before the grand final.

Imagine Wagner in a mammoth, platform-soled stomping strop – too awful.

But all that’s as maybe. Suffice to say wor Cheryl is seriously stressed. As are we all apparently. Some of us for up to four hours a week (only four?).

And that’s before we get to weight-gain anxiety, petrol price nightmares, job security angst – and sex.

Since it’s all over the place at the moment – must be something to do with spring having sprung – attention has also been drawn this week to an online voting operation with surprising purpose.

It’s a curious internet referendum, a puzzling political poll with a twist on the proportional representation theme.

One-person-as-many-votes-as-they-like is the twist. And it seeks to find our sexiest MP. Are we bothered who might walk away with that dubious, swaggering accolade?

Would he or she actually want it? Combination of sex and politics has, in the past, done no one any good, if I remember correctly – except perhaps red-top tabloids, private investigators and kiss-and-tell brokers.

But maybe all that was before super injunctions.

Mrs Cole might be interested.

She could do with a job and it’s a sort of Commons Got Talent competition – right up her street, if you think about it.

The way voting has been going, it looks as though the contest could do with an experienced judge. Or even some rules.

Rules would be a start.

Of our hard-working Commons chaps, Copeland MP Jamie Reed has been pulling in most votes – bobbing in and out of the top 10 like Brad Pitt on a bungee rope.

He has modestly declined to comment on his come-hither attractions – but is rumoured to have confided he remains very concerned about the price of diesel.

Rory Stewart, action-man MP for Penrith and the Border has fared less well.

He’s been hovering around the 100th to 110th mark.

But since most of his supporters have such poor broadband connections, many of them clearly couldn’t vote at all and I reckon he’ll be entitled to demand a recount – once Pony Express has delivered.

John Stevenson, Carlisle’s candidate for sexiest man in Westminster, hasn’t been heard complaining about his results.

At 335th in the poll – or thereabouts – he’s been seen smiling the kind of secret smile that indicates the power of the slow-burner.

Tony Cunningham, MP for Workington, at 478th of 600-and-far-too-many, was remaining as cool as 007 after his first Martini of the day. Impressive.

What does sex appeal have to do with politics? In Westminster or a Cumbrian constituency, nothing at all is the proper answer.

But if we’re honest, even though we know that, few could resist a peep at once they knew it existed.

I peeped... but only after checking out the cheapest deal on 40 litres of premium unleaded.



Should organ donation opt-in be automatic?



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