Sex Up Yer Arse End

Sweary

With the results of Saturday’s Arse Analysis still clouding up my vision like a pair of 60-denier tights fashioned as a balaclava, I suppose it’s hardly surprising that I’ve got sex on the brain. Is bum fun that important to you lot? Can it be that 50% of my readers are perverts, and therefore wrong?

I think not! I’m just going to have to get sexier, I suppose.

We do have a lot of sex, us Paddies. I deduce this from the fact that despite there being only twenty-seven of us left after the Great Orchestrated Famine, we still managed to procreate enough to fill whole continents, and produce such wildly differing specimens as Jonathan Rhys Myres and Derek Davis. Even the most chaste social group in Ireland – elderly priests – have more sex scandals tearing through their parishes than an XPose presenter has half-digested dinners tearing back up her oesophagus. There’s bed-hopping and used condoms and ugly babies wherever you look in Ireland, because our culture screams “I never met a drunken young wan I didn’t fancy roaring insults at in a paternity suit.”

And yet we can be pretty coy. Whatever lends an Irish flavour to our orgasms tends to be edited out or glossed over when it comes to our publicly documenting our wanton ways. Sure, there are hawt Irish books and blogs and newspaper columns, but they tend to be cosmopolitan and middle-class and masquerading as a daydream of Carrie Bradshaw’s, and sure that’s not really the way we go about getting our hole in Ireland, is it? Sure what do we know about dates, except that they need to be picked out of muesli before it can be declared edible! What do we know about The Rules, except that they can be bent for TDs and gout-ridden guards! Pah! I denounce these sparky, yearningly mid-Atlantic confessions of the supposedly desirable in this little nation! Far from martinis and French knickers we were reared! This is the country with the bisexual mythology and the saints so horny that to qualify as chaste they had to nail their knobs to the ground*, for fuck’s sake!

So yeah. Maybe I might sex things up a bit, just… not on here on Arse End (I’d like to keep this space as pure as an evil rantathon can be, and therefore keep the pervs below the 50% mark, thankyouverymuch). And not wholly seriously. Stay tuned. And by tuned I mean tweak your perky little nipples to 45 degrees… no further, though, or you’ll pick up Clare FM, and Clare FM is like syphilis – no one wants it, but once it gets to your brain you’re fucked.

Ooh, look! It’s Paddy’s Day tomorrow! Did you ever notice the amount of Christmas babies we have in Ireland? Just sayin’.

*St. Moling, apparently. Yeah, I know. I thought Moling was a company that made kitchen blenders, too.