An Uneducated View of Sex, Food and Politics by Derek Haines (red white royal blue TXT) 📖

the respondents, male and female, confirmed the researchers initial theory. The only logical, and now irrefutable reason, proved by the data collected in their research, was that this globular enlargement served only one conclusive function. To heighten the enjoyment of the male in the act of coitus.
Now, this was powerful data. Difficult to argue with, and gained at much expense to the public purse in England. However, a sex therapist in France was unconvinced. She understood the method of data collection, and had no doubts the English researchers had conducted their research to the highest possible standard. But, could this conclusion also be true in France? (France being a country within spitting distance of England, but in as far as the subject of sex goes, the two countries may as well be on either sides of the universe! I could even draw a comparison thus. France being the Big Bang of sex, and England being the Black Hole!) After a wait of not more than six months a research grant of two million francs was made to the French researcher, to conduct her own research into this much debated subject, and to establish if the same conclusion held true in France as it did in England.
Her research was extensive. A far broader sampling of the population than the English had done. Questionnaires were prepared asking detailed and very sensitive and intimate questions. All necessary to establish once and for all the definitive answer. Perhaps because of the more open minded attitudes of the French population in general, the respondents numbered in the hundreds of thousands. A far better sampling than the English, and hence would be conclusive.
The result after many, many months of data collation was finally published in the same Journal. (Remember, the one starting with a capital L.) The findings? Overwhelming in its conclusivity. By a ratio of one hundred and eighty five to one, the result confirmed that in France, contrary to England, the knobby globe on the end of a man’s penis was categorically there to enhance the pleasure and heighten the orgasm of the female during coitus.
These two opposite findings had me wondering. Could this just be a nationalistic difference? A cultural divide? Or were the results influenced by a lack of objectivity by the researchers? After all, it is common knowledge that the English and the French have differing viewpoints, and may I suggest even differing moral and cultural attitudes towards sex. I became perplexed by this seemingly inconsequential matter. Did it matter anyway? Each to their own I always say, so should the answer matter. Probably not, but it nevertheless ate away at me. All this money spent to arrive at no conclusion. What to do?
Without the qualifications, experience or respect in this field of medical and scientific research, there was absolutely no hope of me obtaining a government grant to conduct even the smallest research project. If I was to do anything about this, it would have to come from my own resources. I decided I would do it. Setting myself the goal of resolving this sensitive issue once and for all. Even if only for my peace of mind.
With funding supplied by the potential future income from my as yet unpublished, but sure to be best sellers, (manuscripts for three of these potential literary classics live in the bottom drawer of my desk, awaiting the destiny they deserve. Of finding their way to a literary agent or publisher with a death wish! Most are very polite in their refusal to invest large sums of money in my as yet unknown literary classics. “Unfortunately, we do not handle this genre of literature. We do however wish you good luck in finding a suitable publisher”, is the normal response. I plan a new strategy. And this is why I am now confident of future income. Working on the presumption that they do not in fact read the carefully prepared, double spaced pages, but only the genre description I include on the manuscript cover sheet, all I have to do is categorise my works differently. ‘GENRE: CLASSIC/BEST SELLER’. Logic, reasoning and animal cunning at work here!) I headed off to a local public bar to begin my studious campaign for the truth.
The very first question I asked was directed at the matronly, and nearly smiling bar maid. “Do you take credit cards?” Her reply was an affirmative nod, so I was underway. I signed the credit card docket with my hand shaking just a little. The shaking could have been induced by the excitement of becoming a best selling author, but more was the truth, as a reaction to seeing the vast sum of twenty five dollars on the docket, and the knowledge that I may not be rolling in those potential millions by the time my credit card bill arrived. I had not considered this timing issue in my plans. Too late now I thought, so onward I marched and signed an expansion to my debt base.
Buying a round of drinks for the luckily, few patrons at the bar, I began to tell them of my conundrum. The full and unedited version of the facts. The dilemma I wished to solve. Not for the world, but just for my own peace of mind. Why is this ‘bulbous thing’ there? After hearing my eloquent if I may say so, version of the story, they all looked at me as if I was stark raving mad. Any doubts I had to this effect were clarified by a rather large fellow. Dressed in the standard Aussie working man’s uniform of faded blue singlet, navy blue Yakka shorts, pull on Blundstone boots and overhanging beer gut, he stood from his stool, drank my beer in one gulp, looked down at me from all of his six foot plus frame and announced directly to my face, “You perverted little poofter!” before walking out of the bar to his Mack truck.
Not a good start I was thinking to myself. I was reassured by the sight of the remaining few enjoying the free beer. I believed I was still in with a hope. Alas, I was wrong. With the emptying of each (free) beer down the gullet of these stereotypical Australian public bar drinkers, my knowledge of the Australian slang, vernacular and put-down-humour was increased. Ranging from a plain, simple and precise “Get fucked!” to “You need a bloody brain transplant!” and including one priceless gem, “Thanks for the beer, now go stick you head in a bucket of shit! Back door bandits like you aren’t welcome in here!”
I was becoming a little forlorn. Calculating the six beers I had bought at $2.80 each, for a total of $16.80 worth of insults, I figured I had only $8.20 left of my research money, and no answer in sight. I discussed my dilemma with the matronly bar maid, who even though she gave off an unpleasant and cold persona, was the only person I could talk to, given the fact that the public bar was now void of patrons. Although bordering on being polite, I sensed that even she would prefer, if only for economic reasons, that I was not here.
Downhearted and ready to accept defeat, I drank my last mouthful of beer, and readied myself for my exit. At this point, the matronly bar maid placed a fresh beer in front of me. She was obviously very experienced at her job, and was vigilant and attentive in noticing that my glass was nearing empty. Alongside the beer, she placed $8.20. I look at her with what must have been a look of confusion, or at least surprise.
“Listen Luv,” she said in a motherly tone, “There’s your change. This one’s one me. But before you go, can I give you a word of advice?” “Yes, of course.” I stumbled.
“Aussie men don’t like to talk about sex Luv. It just isn’t the done thing. They like to tell dirty yarns, but not to discuss what is private, you know what I mean?” I nodded in agreement, and defeat.
I finished my beer, and wished adieu to the ‘woman of wise words’. She beckoned to me with her index finger to come a little closer. I wondered what the hell she was up to. But I did as she asked, and as I leant forward, she whispered in my ear. “If it is any help Luv, it is a well known fact that your ‘Little Willy’ has a knob on the end to stop you hand slipping off!” She ended her words of wisdom with a huge belly laugh and wished me a good day as tears of laughter started to glisten in the corner of her eyes.
So there you have it. An understanding of my credentials on which I stake my claim to be able to authoritatively discuss this subject. Not only have I completed an extensive and might I add, personally costly research project on this subject, but also, unlike the mega expensive yet unobjective international studies, I reached a positive and undeniably irrefutable conclusion. One other qualification I have is that I had my embarrassment gland removed at an early age, and unlike many in my field, I am not shy to say the word ‘penis’.
24 I must be honest. It is easy to say this in writing. I am not so sure I have the confidence to shout it aloud in a crowded city street.

******

At age four, many things can be confusing. My first recollection of total confusion occurred behind the kindergarten I attended. I had been playing in the sand pit, and being a country boy, saw no need to make the journey indoors, when all I needed was a pee. The back fence seemed a far more convenient place. Mid way through the exercise, I noticed a co-attendee standing at my side. I immediately established that she was a girl because she had a dress on. She pointed as only young children can do, and asked ‘What’s that?”
I was at a loss as to how to respond to such a stupid question. I recall I checked the fence to see if there was a spider or lizard that may have been the subject of her inquiry, but no, she seemed to be pointing to my, as I new it then, Willy. “Willy!” I responded and was lost by the stupidity of this line of questioning. Maybe this was just a name thing. I had struck this before. Parents seem to go to extraordinary lengths to invent ‘home grown’ names for things they had trouble dealing with; so one thing could have ten or more names in the street.
“Where’s mine?” she asked. (Later I was to discover that question is a very female domain, and not restricted to the under five year old demographic!) “Your what?” I naturally replied, still awfully confused. (To this very day, I still become awfully confused under intense questioning by a member of the opposite sex.) “My Willy!” she replied almost angrily. “I dunno.” I responded, accompanied by the almost mandatory shrug of the shoulders. “But I want one!” she started to cry.
By this time, I had completed my assignment, and had replaced all my personal equipment back in my shorts, and was readying to return to the sand pit, where action was aplenty. “Look between you legs.” I said as I started to return to the sand pit. I was thinking how stupid girls were. It was at this point that my life changed. In an instant she had her dress held up and her pants down to reveal, (to my complete and utter astonishment) nothing! I cannot remember if I felt sorry for her, but one thing was clear at that point. She very definitely did not have a Willy! She insisted I look, and I had