No picture of me in a doctor’s jacket again! What a gyp! (Note the interesting derivation on ‘gypsy’ — never knew that!) You must be so disappointed in me yet again. But in my defence, this week’s been a really unpleasant mix of heat, humidity and stiflingly oppressive stillness. The only breeze is that which has been stirred up by the feeble fan that’s currently keeping my feet cool. So you get some angstily-answered questions this week and a re-used picture of me that you’ve probably seen before. If you’re not interested, go and watch my video blog from yesterday. Or go ask me a question!

Every question this week has something to do with love or sex or relationships!
(Sorry, I know it’s a bit over the top… but yes, now you know what my eyes look like… yay!)

Dear Sex-pert Seb, [This feels more like a tabloid each week, excellent -S]

I want to do something for my man which will make him smile every time he thinks about it… and I don’t mean baking an amazing cake! I mean something naughtier.

As someone who is obviously experienced in naughty things, what can you suggest?

- Sexless in Seattle

A juicy one to start with. It probably comes as no surprise to you, me being a man and all, that the only real thing I’ve been able to focus my thoughts on over the last week, during this heatwave, is… sex. I’m all hot and sweaty and so my thoughts inevitably drift to when I was last hot and sweaty. Not being the kind of person to do any exercise outside of the bedroom, my mind wanders to all of the beautiful women that I’ve made love to.

You came to the right person: Sex-pert Seb! I’ve read a lot of girl magazines (Cosmo, Marie Claire, etc.) over the years (I told you, I’m inquisitive) and consider myself a bit of a guru when it comes to this particular topic. The suggestions tend to vary from downright-weird to the hmm-that-sounds-quite-nice-actually but they nearly all revolve around one thing: oral sex (or cooking for him, misogyny be damned!)

There are a lot of variations, some more difficult and/or degrading than others — I’ll give you an easy one to start with: go down on him while he’s asleep, in the morning. It’s a very, very good way to wake up, I assure you.

For more information, search the Internet for the many guides on the topic, but here’s SexInfo101’s to get you started: Fellatio I – Basics.

Geek Master S,

I write to you in greatest secrecy because… because it’s about a girl that I like. But she’s a geek, so she might be able to find this if I give you too much information. Anyway, there’s this girl I like, but I don’t know how to make her love me! Or at least for her to take me seriously! She’s more of a geek than me. She likes all sorts of weird stuff like comics and TV shows with vampires in. I watched Buffy though, and that’s alright, but the rest… I dunno.

Anyway, my question is, how can I be the guy she wants? We are good friends right now, but sex/relationships seem like the last thing on her mind, but I must make her mine!

Live long and prosper (that’s what you geeks say right?),
Clueless Wannabe Geek

Ah, young padawan (that’s a trainee Jedi, from Star Wars), you have much to learn — but it is a good, ripe topic worthy of your focus! The geeks will inherit the world, if they have not already done so, and it’ll be a better place for it! Fortunately, I’m about as big a geek as it gets, so I’ll try to impart some useful knowledge that’ll hopefully a) make you a better person (more of a geek) and b) get into her pants.

First, you need to at least be interested in her and what she does (this is good advice for any girl, incidentally). If she likes vampires, you better start liking vampires, or at least try to read the latest Twilight book. Or invite her around for a Buffy/True Blood marathon. If she likes comics, ask her which super hero/universe is a good one to start with, and go buy it! For bonus points, accompany her to some kind of comic/geek convention and dress up according to her wishes.

As long as you’re interested, she should fall into line pretty quickly. You don’t even have to be an alpha geek yourself, she’d probably be more than happy with someone that doesn’t hush into silence her latest thoughts on the ‘continuity of Star Trek: The Next Generation episode 42′.

For more information, I have to refer you to my own awesome Geek Guides: Why geek girls are awesome (well duh), Geeks make good lovers (this is why you want to make her yours, trust me…)

Sebby-poo, [I got called this for a short period at school by girls. It was not a good time in my life. -S]

I think I’m gay… I like girls. I don’t know if it’s a problem per se, or if it will become a problem later on… but right now, I’m just a bit confused, you know? Is it a phase? Should I tell someone to get it off my chest, or will that only make it worse in today’s day and age? I guess that’s what I’m doing now by telling you?

I suppose I’m looking for advice, if there’s anything I should know. Some background info: I’ve had a few boyfriends but nothing long-term. I’ve had sex with one boy and it was… nice. Nothing special! I recently kissed a girl at a house party… we were drunk… turns out she’s liked me for ages though… and it did feel nice, leaving me wishing something more had happened!

Help me! Am I gay or straight or just…

- A Confused Girl

Well this one’s tricky and ‘are you gay?’ is a good place to start. Sexuality has always been a contentious topic: is it genetic? Nurtured? Instilled by popular culture? The prevailing theory at the moment is that it’s a big mix of nurture and nature — your genetics and hormonal balance might play a big role in it, but so does your upbringing and experiences. No one really knows to be honest (no doubt we’ll learn more about it in the next few decades now that homosexuality is becoming ‘OK’ in modern society). The only real measurement of gayness is: do you feel more attraction (in the full sense — mental and physical, ’till death do you part) to other women? If so, then you’re gay.

But that’s OK!

It’s quite important to remember that being gay does not lock you into various stereotypes and mannerisms. You don’t have to cut your hair short and adorn yourself with tattoos. You don’t have to slap on some lipstick and make out with other girls in clubs (though you can do either if you like). You already have a potential girlfriend lined up, which is good; she can show you the ropes, and you won’t have to wander into the treacherous and seedy world of ‘gay bars’ to experiment. Talking of experimentation: who knows, it might turn out that you’re not actually into girls after all. Perhaps you’re simply curious about things, or you’re out of a disaffected relationship with a boy!

Most of all, don’t worry. Being gay is more socially accepted now than ever before! That doesn’t mean you’ll fit in everywhere, especially in mature or religious communities, and you must accept that their point of view on homosexuality is as valid as yours, and a lot more entrenched. Life as a lesbian might not always be easy, but the important thing is that you’re happy and able to be yourself.

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Today I’m breaking the mold. If you thought you’d get some kind of smutty sex-related story you’re wrong. Instead, as it’s still impossible to string two intelligent thoughts together in this heatwave that’s currently afflicting us, I’ve made a shiny little video blog.  Or a vlog, as some call it. It’s still ‘too much information’, and as always if you want more, head to Lilu’s place.

This video is work-safe, but you probably want to use headphones as I grunt and whimper a little. The peas really are frozen, and the second bag at the end is broccoli.

Entirely unscripted and filmed in just one take, I give to you: Sweaty testicles: meet a bag of frozen peas.

(If you can’t see the video you need to visit my blog.)

If you’re not following the news, we’re currently suffering from a heatwave here in Great Britain. This is probably the hottest June in recorded history. In layman’s terms, England right now is hotter than  Megan Fox’s well-oiled bosom AND it’s due to carry on for at least another 48 hours. That’s why I’ve suddenly started to use monosyllabic words with reckless abandon on here. And shorter sentences. Thinking, with my brain oozing out of my ears, is very tough at the moment. Which means all intelligent discourse is suspended until further notice. Sorry.

We don’t cope well with heat around these parts and, unlike most other discomforts, we really like to whine about it (you may have noticed). The weather is the only thing that universally rouses us from our quiet, turn-the-other-cheek reverie… we Brits are a bit odd like that. Someone else mows your ankles down in the supermarket with a trolley? We apologise. Stale bread and beef dripping for dinner? Grin and bear it. Germans kicking up a fuss again and invading Poland? Sigh, someone’s gotta deal with it…

But weather… weather is our weakness.

You’ve probably heard us whine about it before (probably while we’re on holiday?) — too hot, too cold, too windy, too rainy (though, after thousands of years of rain, some of us have grown to love it). But what sets us apart from other whiners is the ability to bitch and gripe about the current state of weather – no matter what it is.

Rain or shine, somehow we can always find something to whine about, and it’s usually the heat.

Because I know there are lots of countries that are hotter than ours, let me explain why heat in Great Britain is worse than in other countries! It all comes down to expectations. Most Continental Europeans and Americans just don’t believe me when I say this, but heat is rare in Britain.

We don’t have continental, land-locked weather — our weather is almost entirely governed by the Atlantic ocean (and its Gulf Stream). Our average year-wide temperature is 9C (48F!) Because we’re an island — and a small one at that — our weather is often varied but our temperature is very stable. Our summer average is 15C, our winter average is 4C. We’re certainly not a warm country but we’re temperate damnit!

So when the temperature goes over 32C (90F) like it has today, it feels like the world is going to end.

The thing is, 32C isn’t actually the end of the world, but Britain falls apart when it gets hot. Really, the nation comes to a standstill during heat waves. But so that you can better appreciate the British way of life, let me describe to you our five ‘climate types’  here on our ‘rainy little island’.

0-4C (32-40F) — Cold — January, February

Some say that England is at its finest in the winter and if you like cold, wet-to-the-bone wind and rain, or our fabled ‘horizontal ice rain’, I guess you’ll love it (really, you need to experience horizontal ice rain at least once in your life). When it’s not raining the skies are deliciously clear and the air is crisp but December and January are generally very, very wet. It rarely dips below zero but when it does, we normally shut down for the day. In other countries an inch of snow is a piffling annoyance; in England it’s ‘impossible’ to get to school or the office. In fact, an inch of snow is highly dangerous and is best tackled from the living room with a cup of tea and a book.

We’re well aware that in some countries there can be six feet of snow and business still continues as usual. In England any extremity is cause for a day off — too much rain, too much (3cm) snow, too much heat. I should add that the Scots and Irish are better in this regard as they’re used to snow and sleet — the English are the wusses. Oh, and the Welsh, they’re even more wimpy.

5-12C (41-54F) — Moderate — Spring and Autumn (Fall…)

In my opinion, by far the best weather in England is when it’s moderate; the end of February is particularly nice, which is also the driest month of the year! There is lots of generic-and-overcast British weather in this period, but when it’s sunny it’s lovely! Drizzle is likely for at least half an hour each day. We normally can’t find anything to whine about during this period, except the occasional ‘I wish it would get warmer…’ or perhaps ‘Oh, the blossom came out late this year, not like back in 1971…’

The end of April is particularly lovely when all of the daffodils and bluebells have flowered and you can find massive stretches of woodland carpeted with them. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we get a burst of glorious weather in May which turns it into the finest month of the year.

13-17C (55-63F) — Warm — Summer

(This is actually in June, and one of my favourite old photos of mine!)

The only months where our average temperature actually gets over 12C are June, July and August. These are also the only three months where there’s a risk of heat-induced apocalyptic melt-down (covered later). There’s actually no less rain in the summer than the rest of the year (though that doesn’t stop old people whining about the lack of rain and the low level of the reservoirs) but it often comes at the end of warm days (tropical-style!) I love falling asleep with the sound of rain on the roof.

On the warmer days of 17-18C kids can often be found splashing in public fountains. Also, as soon as the temperature goes above 12, everyone wears shorts or summer dresses. Even when it rains.

18-25C (64-77F) — HOT — Summer/Spring Heat Wave

This is where things start getting a little hairy. Babies wake up crying. Hairy men walk round topless. The usually-prudish British women can even be found sunbathing. The tarmac starts to melt (I’ve always wondered: do hotter countries use concrete or something that doesn’t melt?)

We get the occasional thunderstorm but for the most part hot weather in England is something truly glorious and cherished. Do ya remember the summer of 67? old people say, reminiscing about a particularly nice summer with lots of days in the 18-25C bracket.

But eventually people start grumbling. Where’s the rain? people cry. All this sunbathing is making my skin peel the silly sunbathers moan. The garbage starts to smell. Tennis players start spending longer and longer spraying themselves with water in between sets. Kids get thrown out of school for reckless water-bombing.

Again, England’s lovely at this temperature, just not for more than a few days.

26C-35C — Nuclear Apocalypse

The following normally comes to pass during what’s commonly broadcast by British papers as ‘THE HOTTEST DAY EVER RECORDED’ (we get at least two of these a year).

• On the first hottest day of the year: People remark about how many months it’s been since we last had a good rain. The reservoirs have magically gone from ‘overflowing’ to ‘almost empty’. Oldies a) reminisce about when we used to get proper summers, back in the olden days –  it used to rain proper rain back then — and b) they start dying.
• The day after (really the hottest day of the year): We now have water rationing in place, so that we don’t turn into a third-world sub-Saharan desert nation. Who cares if we’re the wettest Western nation in the world. People can often be found trying to drown themselves in sinks, fountains, bowls of water or even pint glasses.
• Third day, aka Is This What Nuclear Warfare Would Feel Like? Mass-exodus to wetter, colder countries like Iceland is considered. Stories about people getting stuck/drowning in molten tarmac start to trickle in.
• Fourth day, aka The Meek Inherit The World: Computers, fridges and most other utilities such as power substations and water treatment plants break down or explode. The end of the world as we know it.

Anyway, I’m sure the heat wave will be over soon… mustn’t grumble… Gotta think of those guys on the Equator where it’s actually hot…

Phop, phop, phop.

The sound of a fan mere inches from my gonads. The slightest of  slips and, in spectacular fashion, all hope of future Sebastians goes down the drain. Earlier, some of my leg hair got caught between the blades and it hurt like buggery. A small price to pay for wind-chilled testicles though; if they get too hot it can make me impotent, right?

I took my shirt off hoping for a slight reprieve and it worked for a while. But now I’ve soaked through the chair I’m sitting in and not only am I hot, I’m sticky. Sticky.

I’m amazed that my keyboard hasn’t yet short-circuited. I’ve been looking into getting one of those plastic covers that they use in McDonalds to prevent them from getting gunged up with grease. Mind you, death-by-keyboard-electrocution has to be the best way a geek can go…

It’s made all the worse by spending 80 to 90% of my waking life in front of three computers, four screens and an amplifier that generates enough heat that my cats always flock to it in the winter. It’s about 3 kilowatts in total, which is great in winter… but not in the summer. Perhaps I should get out more I often find myself thinking as I swing around in my computer chair, waving my arms about like a retard and desperately trying to create a breeze.

But in a brief moment of clarity I realise I shouldn’t be moaning or despairing: melting into an amorphous puddle of goo in a bedroom surrounded by high-tech equipment with a tall glass of cold, clean water is a lot more desirable than passing out in the wild undergrowth of Central Anatolia, Turkey.

And so it is, with gooey stumps that would make a leper proud, with gangly digits that were once well-formed and finely-honed typing machines, I write this entry.

I had planned to write something else, something deep, but the pervasive heat is debilitating. Instead, I’m going to tell you about the few times I’ve almost died of heatstroke or dehydration. What a thrilling topic for a blog entry. I’ve interspersed a few pretty photos to make it less boring.

June 29th 2009, Sussex, England

(See picture at start of entry)

Consumed four pints (2 litres) of water… and sweated it all out again through my fingers. Laptops should be outlawed in the summer. Sat outside in the sun for a while hoping the breeze would somehow utilise the sweat that glistens from every part of my body. No breeze, just felt like my brain was being baked while still safely within the confines of my skull. The feeling of sweat dripping from under your arms onto your hips and legs is quite unique, but not entirely unpleasant.

July 2007, Cappadocia, Turkey

In hindsight it was perhaps rather stupid to take a taxi ride out into the middle of nowhere and then pick my way over the weird and wonderful ‘moonscape’ terrain of Cappadocia. On a normal day I guess it would’ve just been silly, but in the middle of summer with temperatures reaching over 40C (100F) and only a small bottle of water it was stupid. I was very nearly a winner of my very own Darwin Award. As with most of my recent exploits, it was obviously to take photos — and it was probably worth it, despite the near-death experience. Check out the lovely hand-carved cave that I found while crawling along the ground, gasping for air and praying that someone would find me, or I would find civilisation. This is probably over 1500 years old!

Somewhere in South England, 1996

I actually keeled over in some woodlands by school, back when I was 12. We’d been exploring (as kids do, when they go to private schools in the countryside and they’re skipping a class they don’t like) and… I guess I pushed it too hard. I’ve never been the fittest person in the world — the thought of exercising just for the sake of being fit is completely foreign to me — I always thought I’d rather be reading or sitting in front of a computer learning something.  The pen is mightier than the sword, right?

Anyway, where was I…

Yes, I passed out in the woods and my friends had to carry me back to school. I am told that, to avoid getting into trouble, they conjured up a great story that involved me being bitten by a snake. Unfortunately, we had leaves and twigs in our hair — oops!

Ostia Antica (30 miles from Rome), October 2008

Instead of Pompeii I decided to go to Ostia Antica, an ancient ruin that has always been overshadowed by its volcanically-preserved sister. I think Pompeii is meant to be in better condition but a) Ostia Antica is only half an hour instead of 4 hours from Rome, and b) it’s almost completely devoid of tourists — so I went to Ostia and it was awesome! Except for the nearly-dying bit.

For the 8 hours I was there I saw three people — and we’re talking about a large city that once had a population of 75,00 people! Originally it had acted as the harbour city of ancient Rome between the 7th century BC and 4th century AD, and some pesky Arab pirates finally caused its downfall in the 9th century. Anyway, I ended up very lost in some ancient Mithraic catacombs; lost and without water.. in the dark. Let me tell you something: ancient religious sites are scary. Dark and scary and damp and silent… except the occasional skitterings of creatures you will never see. I will write about it properly as my travel stories of Italy have finally reached Rome — but the point is… actually, I don’t know what the point is.

Why am I writing in this weather? I’m going to look for another fan…

It’s been a while since I last wrote about music. Listening to music, like the appreciation of all art forms, is a very personal and subjective thing. You might like rock and I might like soul, but as long as we both get what we’re looking for, who cares? Well, I care! I listen to contemporary pop and sigh. It saddens me to think that, for some people, this is as good as it gets.

If we’re not careful the King of Pop will be nothing more than an honourific title thrown around by future generations in the playground: ‘Dad says the King of Pop died recently.’ ‘Yeah, sucks. Did you hear the latest Britney Spears song? It rocks!’ Unless someone — you or I — steps in and reminds children of what real music once sounded like and where their music originally came from, we can forget all hope of there ever being another King of Pop, Soul or Rock ‘n’ Roll.

* * *

The King of Pop, Michael Jackson. Not the Baron or Prince or Godfather — the King; the top dog upon which all comparisons are made and will be for years to come. I’m not going to talk about the last 20 years of his life but instead I will focus on the first 30, the three decades that revitalised a flagging music industry. In those thirty years, Michael Jackson became the greatest and most influential musician of our time. To those amongst us that appreciate music and its power; to those of us that are prone to bouts of aural sex: we have a lot to be grateful for! I just hope I can do Michael justice and nail the most important aspects of his influential and protean career.

While certainly successful, the first ten years of his life as the lead singer of The Jackson 5 were hardly monumental. The Jackson family were recognised as a musically-gifted family and Michael was nothing more than a charismatic and spectacular performer. But he could only grow so much, restricted by Motown’s draconian production rules and an oppressive father. The Jacksons were destined, unless something changed, to be a flash in the pan — certainly one of Motown’s biggest success stories (four successive number ones is nothing to be ashamed of!), but minuscule compared to what the Jackson family in general and Michael in particular were capable of. Perhaps the most important role of the Jacksons would be to become the first black teen idols. Breaking down barriers would be a recurring aspect of Michael Jackson’s life at the forefront of the music industry.

Stifled by Motown, The Jacksons jumped ship to CBS in 1975, a move that would finally grant the band the creative freedom it required. The Jacksons produced lots of albums in the following decade, but none of them approaching the success of their early Motown hits. But for Michael, it would be a different story indeed: in 1978 he met Quincy Jones on the set of The Wiz — “I hated doing The Wiz… I did not want to do it,” Quincy said later — they didn’t know it then but Quincy’s involvement with the film would soon change musical history and forge the greatest, most influential and successful collaboration in music history. Quincy Jones is a musician and conductor whose career and incredible influence spans five decades. With 27 Grammys and countless other awards, Quincy, like the Jacksons, broke down barriers that would allow future African-Americans to succeed in the culturally-biased media industry. The scope of Quincy Jones’ work is so varied and vast that it’s hard to comprehend: we’re talking about a legend that played alongisde Miles Davis during the creation of modern jazz and bebop, but then later produced the largest-selling album of all time (Thriller). He’s worked with Sinatra, Spielberg and even Bill Cosby. However, after Bad, his production and arrangement days were over — perhaps, after five decades of musicianship, the impresario had finally set down on paper the notes and themes that had run through his head for fifty years. Perhaps it was time to make way for future generations?

But I digress: it was on the set of The Wiz that this partnership of mentor and young prodigy begun. Off The Wall was born from the marriage of orchestral jazz, soul and 70s disco. Off The Wall fused sounds and melodies and dazzlingly energetic themes that had been building up for decades but never fully exemplified until this album was mastered and distributed. It’s worth noting, though their influences were not particularly significant, that both Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney wrote tracks for Off The Wall — perhaps this shows just how much confidence these musical geniuses had in Michael?

If Quincy and Jackson’s first collaboration hadn’t quite cemented things — Off The Wall only sold 20 million copies! — their next album would prove beyond doubt that they’d hit the spot. Thriller would be the first and only album to become something more than just a finely-crafted collection of songs. The astronomical number of sales — 109 million — would thrust Thriller into the category of ‘household staple’ rather than ‘commodity’ — families would go to the supermarket to buy bread, milk and a copy of Thriller. To this day, Thriller has more than doubled the next-largest album (45 million — Dark Side of the Moon) and its universally popular appeal will no doubt continue its reign of supremacy.

The bone of contention that one usually comes across when examining Jackson’s career is thus: how much of the success was actually due to him? Did Michael’s career begin as a vehicle for Motown’s music machine and end as nothing more than the pop industry’s poster child? Is it important? If we can learn one thing from history it’s one thing: for better or worse, the outcome is what counts, not the minutia, not those that fall by the wayside. If you discount his later work and simply focus on his early-adult albums — Off The Wall, Thriller, Bad and Dangerous – you have a body of work that was not only phenomenally successful but also more influential than the creations of any other artist in the last 40 years. It’s because of Jackson that we have hip-hop and rap music. Jackson revitalised a pop industry that was suffocating under the burgeoning force of uncreative, uninspired electronica. The phenomenon of Michael Jackson caused a rebirth of popular music that inspired and influenced almost every modern R&B, funk and pop musician.

I haven’t even begun to touch on the immortal influence that Michael Jackson had on both the youth and adults of the world with his music videos and live performances. Jackson created the music video that we know today; he single-handedly launched MTV to stardom with Thriller. Jackson, through sheer artistic brilliance, destroyed the last vestiges of African-American inequality in the media. Michael Jackson’s choreographic style — oh, that white trilby, those hip-thrusts and those gloves — had an effect more profound than anything since Fosse’s jazz or Jerome Robbins’ West Side Story.

I hope that the world, the media-consuming public, can in the next few years put aside any moral objections they have to the man himself and simply focus on what he created. It is irrelevant to wonder whether he is solely to thank for his wondrous advances in music or if he was merely the focus of myriad prodigious input from Quincy Jones. The matter of the fact is thus: Michael Jackson pioneered and sat atop the pinnacle of a musical, a rich cadence that had been bubbling and building up for decades. It finally exploded with Michael Jackson’s solo albums and the world is a richer place for it. From Miles Davis to Stevie Wonder and the entire R&B, jazz and soul libraries that flutter and reside in between, Michael Jackson created, embraced and become the very embodiment of modern pop music.

* * *

The two best albums you could buy a child or musical neophyte are Davis’ Kind Of Blue and Jackson’s Off The Wall. There is no better way to be quickly brought up to speed on the roots and direction of modern music. And if you haven’t heard either of them, you are doing yourself and rest of the world an injustice!

RIP, Michael Jackson. Surely one of your sons must be reaching the age where he might show an interest in singing or dancing…

I just woke up to find that I may have messed up the blog’s email subscriptions. Apologies if you’ve been receiving more than the usual number of email notifications, or, in fact, none at all! You should be able to safely subscribe again without fear of using up your entire inbox allowance…

Please, though it is only a meager gesture of apology, accept this random photo of me with an erection, dressed up as Indiana Jones, staring down at some cute girl. Have a nice weekend!

Ask Me Anything is turning into an Internet phenomenon! My cute little buttons are turning up on blog sidebars all over the net! My inbox is almost full to overflowing with fun, tricky, geeky and out-right disturbing questions. This week sees the (popular?) return of The Apron, at the behest of one of the anonymous submissions. Remember, if you have anything to ask, ask me. No ‘Sebby In Doctor’s Jacket’. Sorry, I failed!

Dear Bearded Wisdom Dispenser [Bonus points! -S]

Is there any fail-safe way to give a cat medicine? Specifically pills, since the liquids are much easier to force-feed.

My cat nearly died of kidney failure and was sent home on two meds. Then he wouldn’t swallow one of them (for one pilling only!) and had to be re-admitted to the hospital and sent home on FOUR meds. He hates me and I feel like a terrible overlord every time the medicating-by-force hour rolls around.

PETA would be shocked to see me in action, shouting at him and cramming things down his throat! I have tried EVERYTHING: wrap him in a towel, coat the pill with butter, dab butter on his face to make him lick it off and swallow, blow in his face, stroke his neck, prise his jaws open and throw the pill down his throat… even a pill gun! Which is guaranteed by the vet, and yet still the little bugger keeps figuring out ways around my tricks.

As he gets healthier it gets harder and harder to get him medicated! His latest method involves working up so much drool that it literally pours down his front, and washing the pill out in the flood.

What do I do with the little @#!%?? Despite the hell he gives me, I do rather like him and want to make this easier on BOTH of us. Heeeelp!

Entertaining the thought of a home-made fur coat,
Scrawny-but-surprisingly-strong Brunette

Well… kudos for trying so damn hard to help your cat! I think I would’ve given up long ago and simply got a new cat — I’d do the same if I had a troublesome baby too. I guess that’s why no woman has agreed to have children with me yet. Hm. Anyway… This is going to be tough, as you’ve tried almost all of the conventional methods — and even a few highly creative unconventional ones! (Did you photograph your cat covered in butter…?)

There are a few other things you can try though! From easiest to hardest:

• Pill pockets! You can actually buy kitty treats that you can slot the pill into! How cool is that?
• Hide it in his food? You don’t mention it, but I assume you’ve tried hiding the pill in his food? Some experts suggest using a different kind of food that they’ve not had before, so that they won’t know you’ve tampered with it. Best use whole pills, not powdered, so you know how much (or little) of the medication has actually been consumed.
• Dissolve the pill. If all else fails, dissolve the pill into a little water or the juice from a tin of tuna. Then inject it into the cat’s mouth with a little plastic pet syringe (which you can probably get from your vet).

Notice how all of these methods don’t involve holding the cat down (or tying it up in a towel? you cruel mistress!) So hopefully the cat should still be your friend afterwards!

How on earth can ask.com which I have never installed/used hijack my browser?

Better still how the hell do I rid myself of the devlish blighter? Thought I’d consult a master before I go downloading random “fix” software willy-nilly. Thus far I have run Ad-Aware and Spybot and cleared cookies but to no avail

I didn’t surf any porno sites, honest,
Obviously Female from Dakota

Browser hijacking is horrible! You were right to start with Ad-Aware and SpyBot, both of which are usually very good — but not always capable of resolving and removing everything! You’re a bit lacking in details, so I’ll start with the basics and go from there: first, are you sure Ask hasn’t just become your homepage? Are you using Firefox or Internet Explorer? (The solution will vary wildly dependent on which browser you use!)

It might be as simple as resetting your homepage (Tools -> Options -> ‘Main’ or ‘General’ and just set the homepage to Google!) or it might be something a whole lot more gribbly.  A little searching suggests that the main Ask.com hijack involves using Firefox, so I’ll just assume you’re using Firefox…!

• Open up My Computer and navigate to: C:\Documents and Settings\YOUR USER NAME\Application Data\Mozilla\Firefox\Profiles\ — alternatively, you can type that address into Start > Run!
• There should be a folder there ending in ‘.default’. It’ll be called something like ‘ym0is63z.default’ — you want to go into that directory, double click it.
• Delete user.js and user.js.bak. That ought to clean things up.

To be honest, the number of hijacks that you could be afflicted by is probably in the hundreds, and I’ve only listed one way to fix it. If all else fails, have you tried Google’s new browser, Chrome? It’s not perfect, but it’s probably the easiest solution to your problem!

Mr Seb,

This morning on a semi-crowded subway car, I encountered a bit of drama when a man 20 years my senior fitted his way into a space between myself and another mid-thirties comely lady like me. After a few beats, I felt this man’s shoe at the edge of mine and then his bag fell against my calf. As there was an empty space this man had just vacated in order to wedge his way betwixt us two and furthermore, since I was in the space I occupied first, I felt no need to move an inch. Therefore, I politely inquired, “Excuse me, sir, would you mind your bag that is touching my leg?” He replied, “I have a bag and you have a bag.” (Indeed, he was showing his brilliance there as we were both holding bags.) Though in truth the ass did position himself near me, so he was actually touching my bag, I recognized my handbag was touching him, so I moved it away from him and repeated my inquiry. He then leaned over near my face and stated, “If you lost some weight, you would have more room.”

Seeing as how I was now dealing with a man-child, say about mental age eight, I responded in kind by saying, “I can lose some weight, but you’re not going to lose your stupid.” Now, I feel my response was adequate. After all, it elicited a boisterous shouting of the word “Porky” from the man on the train, who I might add was clad in a suit. (Quite the professional man, eh?) I definitely wedged under his skin. However, my reply certainly is nothing to send into the history books, and I readily admit that during the fog of my morning commute, I probably plagiarized it from some book or movie.

So here’s my question… [Finally, eh, after a truly Shakespearean/Herculean effort... -S] How would you have responded to the man had you been a witness to this subway folly? I’m also intensely interested in how Apron would have reacted. (I heart Apron.) Thank you (and Apron) in advance for your considered replies.

Regards,
Well Proportioned Lady with robust self-esteem, despite the lunacy of a deranged middle aged man during a NYC commute

Seb

First of all, congratulations on being the first Ask Me Anything that I haven’t had to modify in any way shape or form. Though flowery, your use of language was, I believe, apt. It took me right back to the Middle Ages when men would joust and duel to the death for the privilege of marrying and deflowering the finest of maidens.

As for advice… Do you mean, if I witnessed the situation as the well-proportioned lady in question (i.e. you), or if I was a chivalrous man sitting opposite and watching the sad little incident unfold?

This is where I should probably tell you that I have a bit of a ‘thing’ for busy train carriages. As I’ve already alluded to in my ‘Best places to have sex‘ articles, I do like trains. And busy trains really do it for me… … With that in mind, I give you my wisened advice: Sock it to him! Just scream something along the lines of Hey, stop touching me!, leap out of your chair and swing the aforementioned bag at him. There’s no way in this day and age that anyone will ever doubt the veracity of your claim — yay, feminism! — so there’s likely to be little or no repercussions for a dazzlingly protean display of ball-whacking  audacity in front of the other commuters.

However, if you prefer a more temperate approach, I’d suggest you simply ‘take it like a man’ and just take a photo of him with your phone. Then upload it to your computer, scrawl something rude across it with Paint, and put it on the Internet.

[What follows is one of the funniest things I've ever read... but maybe that's because it's 3am and I'm starting to lose it. -S]

Apron

Dear Big & Bouncy,

How would I have responded to him?  Um, I wouldn’t have.  I’m way too scared of getting knifed in the neck to start shit with obvious lunatics.  Especially lunatics in suits.  They’re known commonly as “Suitatics” or “Mafioso.”

The real issue here is not necessarily how I or anybody else would have responded– the real issue here is the whole confrontation.  Now, you say you love me, and I’m truly touched and flattered by that.  And, honeybear, I love you too, so I know you won’t mind when I tell you that both you and the suit-wearing dickhead were both behaving like five-year-old children on this particular subway ride.  So, maybe the guy shouldn’t have placed himself in between you and the other “mid-thirties comely lady,” but he did.  The last time I checked the New York State’s penal codes, standing in between two people on a subway isn’t a crime, even if there is space elsewhere in the car.

Right?  Right.

Here’s the sad, cold, hard, unpleasant truth of life: in subway cars, people touch each other.  To me, if I can ride the MTA from Brooklyn to Coney Island without enduring somebody’s finger in my asshole or their chin-zit on my shoulder, then I think I’ve done pretty okay for myself.  So his shoe was at the edge of yours.  So his bag was touching your leg.  Jesus Christ, you sound like a child in the back of the Oldsmobuick with your older brother on a family vacation to Hot Springs.  “He keeps touching me!”  “She won’t stop licking my seatbelt!”  “He keeps shoving his fingers in his eye sockets and rubbing the goo on my t-shirt!”

Um, yeah.  Get the fuck over yourself.

Seriously– if you had just endured his shoe touching yours and his bag touching your leg, you wouldn’t have made the totally unnecessary comment about his bag touching your leg, the comment that escalated this whole series of events.  And he wouldn’t have called you “Porky,” which I’m sure you’re not.  Now, was he in the right for doing that?  Certainly not.  He obviously wasn’t brought up by kind, egalatarian, loving parents.  And, if he was, he probably killed them and ate them the morning of this unfortunate subway ride– chalk his brusque comment up to a little indigestion.

I’m willing to bet that this isn’t the only instance of Subway Drama that has involved you, has it?  Honestly, if you’re going to live in NYC and ride the MTA every day of your life, you’re going to have to get used to people mashing your buxomness, stepping on your Nine Wests and breathing pickle steam down your neck.  That’s just the way it is.  And I tell it like it is.  ‘Cause I’m a 20 something blogger, and I’ve got snark leaking out of my ass, little bitches.  Don’t stand next to me on the subway, some snark might get on your skirt.

That about wraps it up for another week! Share my Ask Me Anything buttons around! (How smooth am I? Getting better at this self-promotion thing…)

I had a few personal questions trickle in this week, which I don’t mind, but they’re outside the scope of Ask Me Anything. Feel free to email any questions you might have though, or perhaps you might find the information you’re looking for on the ‘About‘ page. Alternatively, I might compile a few personal questions and post them all at once — but that’s getting awfully close to those list-style Internet memes that I do so despise.

I need to begin this one with a little background information: I have gas; the internal, intestinal kind, the type that comes out both ends with startling regularity. I don’t know if it’s a male thing, windiness, or if some men get it more than others, but I do know that I have plenty. The reason for this is quite simple: I eat a truly diverse range of foods — often at the same time — and I drink plenty of carbonated liquids, like Coke. I mix my food types with reckless abandon, and my stomach and intestines rebel violently enough to generate gas — lots and lots of gas.

Being a full-time hermit, it’s not really a problem: I mean, does a hirsute British bear shit or fart in the woods? Does it really count as burping if there’s no one there to hear it? What’s the sound one one butt-cheek farting…?

The problem is thus: when I actually find myself around other people, I have very good manners. I don’t fart or burp, nor do I pick my nose. I hold in all of that gas until, by the end of the evening, I’m ready to burst. If you’ve ever held in farts for long enough (I don’t expect girls to admit to this, but the boys probably will), you’ll know just how rough it gets; everything starts to feel really… compacted. Holding in burps isn’t so bad, but it compresses the contents of your intestine from the other side! Finally, with enough swallowing and butt-clenching… something’s gotta give. And it’s always your ass. Always.

And so with that introduction… we move onto this week’s embarrassing, too-much-information tale. As always, if you want more of the same, hit up Lilu’s blog. This is a short one, with yet another Flash animation from my favourite site Sexinfo101. If you can’t see the (not work-safe) animation further down, you need to read this story on my blog.

This one’s so terrible that I’m not going to give you a location, nor shall I mention any names. It involves me and a girl. We might be in a hotel or at my house — or we might be in a cave in Turkey — it’s irrelevant, for the sake of this story.

All you need to know is that we’re having sex. Dirty, no-holds-barred sex. The kind of sex you might have with someone you may never meet again or alternatively, a lover that you know incredibly well: you either know exactly where to touch them, or you hit all the rights spots with a fumbled, scatter-all approach. It’s that kind of frantic, frenetic sex where your heart, arms and crotch feel like they might give out at any moment — but that’s OK, because you’re going at it as if tomorrow might never come. You’re there, in each other’s sweaty embrace, breathing heavily and giving it everything you’ve got.

‘Hey baby… how about a sixty-nine?’

I pause momentarily, wondering if calling her ‘baby’ might be spoiling the moment; I ruin the deep, wet rhythm we’ve so carefully nurtured too. I look at her slightly-parted lips and grin winningly as I kiss her closed eyes. Gradually, as she realises that I’m no longer plunging back and forth like a maniac, she opens her eyes to look at me. A gentle sigh escapes from her lips, the fleeting ghost of a moan that never quite made it. ‘Sure!’

Up she climbs into old-faithful sixty-nine. I guess it varies from girl to girl, but she certainly likes it. She’s one of those few delightful girls that actually derive a sense of power and pleasure from deep-throating a long, hard penis. Funnily, most men like it because it’s very dominating — but girls like it because they’re totally in control of the man’s pleasure. And with the 69, there is of course the tiny matter of the girl receiving oral sex too, which normally settles the deal. It’s safe to say that the position is, for almost all intents and purposes, awesome.

I’ll let the animation above do most of the talking as I don’t really want to make a name for myself as a softcore erotica writer (can’t see it? You have to read this story on my blog!) Perhaps, if one day I feel the urge, I’ll start another blog and write pseudonymous porn under my dress-up-at-weekends alter-ego ‘Debby’. But I digress…

She was quite thin, so I could easily see over her stomach and breasts to her head and mouth. Magically, mystifyingly bobbing up and down. She realises I’ve stopped to look and grunts in that I’m-not-using-my-teeth-but-I-could-if-I-wanted-to way. There was actually one girl, a few years back, that took my cock out of her mouth, looked down at me, staring up from between her legs and boldly stated: ‘Look Seb, get on with it. This position does my knees in and I ain’t got all day.’ This girl was more polite and I took the hint: I got back to work and the thrusting, sucking, whimpering and moaning continued.

It’s all going so well. I can hardly see — damnit, I need wipers attached to my forehead — but what I can see looks damn fine! My body starts to tingle, starting at my toes and quickly zipping up my thighs to my groin. I have a firm grip on her legs and back, and I can feel her squirming with the involuntary spasms of muscles all over her body as she orgasms yet again. Any second now I’ll join her. Her head, her mouth, still bobbing, still dipping, still sucking. My nails dig into her thighs as I start to climax; my back arches as my muscles tense and then shudder with a violent convulsion.

PPFFAAAAAAARRRP  PfffTTTTTttt  ppft    ffftt

The monster of all pent-up farts fired explosively into her face. As if the semen wasn’t enough, she’d swallowed her pride and sucked a fart straight up her nostrils.

Those of you that have farted in the bath will know the diabolical intensity of pure, undiluted farts.

We never did the sixty-nine again. And I now excuse myself from a girl’s bedroom for just a few moments before commencing with the foreplay.

If you are in any way squeamish at the sight of meat or blood, or you’re a militant vegetarian/Greenpeace member, you probably want to skip this entry. Just scroll on down really quickly past the nasty pictures. If you like, there’s some photos of me making an ass of myself yesterday — but if you’ve already seen those, um… go buy a photo of mine?

Anyway, all links in this entry, apart from one, are ’safe’. I’m not going to surprise you with some gory, nasty photo, don’t worry. There are at least two graphic photos in the entry itself though — you have been warned. Oh, and if you have no idea why I’m talking about the Faroe Islands, it’s because I’m going there next month!

The Faroe Islands, by virtue of being, literally, in the middle of frackin’ nowhere is a little stuck when it comes to food. Their first airport was built in 1942 by British forces; for the 1500 years leading up to the airport they had to sustain themselves through self-sufficiency alone. The poor island-dwellers haven’t been  dealt a very good hand though (and why would people live there in the first place, anyway?): they have some grass, but due to the prevailing winds and inclement weather, the grass isn’t bountiful enough to rear cows for food. Above-ground vegetables are also hard to grow for the same reasons! They have potatoes, but even they are relatively recent import for Christ’s sake. Their primary food source is sheep, which account for something like 50% of their total diet.

(Not actually in the Faroes — just a doe-eyed sheep that I found in Wales years and years ago, which I’ve not shared before!)

Along with sheep, and by far their richest resource, they have the North Atlantic (which happens to be one of the cleanest bodies of water in the world). It’s positively stuffed full of fish and whales, both of which have been farmed for hundreds of years. They also eat seabirds, like puffins — but don’t worry, they’ve been sustainably hunted for 300 years and there are millions of them up there. Even the pilot whale, their whaling website hastens to add, is very gently farmed: an average of 950 have been caught in the last 10 years, which provides 30% of all meat produced in the Faroes! As you can imagine, very little goes to waste — even the blubber is used… or consumed! (If I sell enough Personalised Sebby Landscapes, I will eat whale blubber and photograph it, just for you guys.)

With their four food types out of the way — sheep, fish, bird and whale — I’m now going to wow you with their delicacies. I use the term ‘delicacy’ loosely. Even my Faroese friends tell me that most of these foods should be eaten with your eyes shut and a clothes peg across the bridge of your nose. Only push onwards if you’re interested in what a smoked sheep looks like; you have been warned… again!

In the Faroes the entire concept of artistic, culinary prowess is foreign. Only in recent years, since the second World War, have international dishes begun to pop up (like pizza). Food preparation in the Faroes is rarely anything other than functional. Now, moving on: if you’re a cook yourself, or you studied biology at school, you probably know that salt is a very good preservative. In fact, it was the only preservative we had for hundreds of years! Sailors had big barrels of fish and meat, heavily salted and Old Worlde travellers would often carry salted meat jerky. And up in the Faroes… they have salty wind! Lots and lots of salty wind.

I wish I was making this up but, in the Faroes, meat preparation and preservation — the age-old and finest tradition, the most elite way to cure meat and fish — is to hang it in the salty sea air. While hanging meat is nothing new — we normally do it with smoke, instead of all-natural home-reared ’salt air’… — the Faroese have gone one further!

They hang whole sheep up. For days and even weeks, they slice that sucker open and hang it up to dry. And, if you go the whole hog and hang it for over a year and eat it raw, you get the finest of all Faroese delicacies: Skerpikjøt.

Yum (you have to admit, it looks truly awesome). Such is the prevalence and popularity of hanging meat, most Faroese houses have out-buildings called ‘hjallur’ that are dedicated to wind-drying. I don’t know if they hang them for months to bring out the flavour, or if they’re just too lazy to light a fire. I’ll be sure to sample it when I visit next month.

As I’ve already hinted, due to their dreary desolation in the middle of the Atlantic, nothing is wasted on the Faroe Islands. They eat whale blubber, something most people will find revolting (though, it’s the same as eating pork rind, no?) but perhaps more disgustingly the only bit of sheep that they have deemed ‘inedible’ is the current contents of its stomach…

(Click here to see the sheep’s head. I didn’t feel comfortable putting it right here on my blog… it’s pretty grim. My inner connoisseur appreciates the two potatoes laid daintily by its side though…)

Yup, brains and eyeballs. And I suppose they eat the intestines too… the Faroese really get love value for money! It also seems they eat a lot of mutton, rather than lamb, so I assume they milk the sheep for years before finally butchering them. If any vegetarians are still reading, I hope you’re impressed with their very efficient use of livestock!

Finally, though I’m not sure if it’s true (my Faroese friends might be playing a mean trick on me), the epitome of blue-ribbon, Michelin-star Faroese catering is… stuffed puffin! But try as I might, this is the best photo I could find of a stuffed puffin.

So, to conclude, the Faroe Islands don’t actually haev any real delicacies. Just really old-school ways of preparing food that some wise-ass Tourism Department decided to label as ‘delicacies’. Smart, cruel bastards.

After yesterday’s deep-and-meaningful entry I feel it my duty, as your charismatic host, to break the pensive and thoughtful atmosphere. That’s another thing you might’ve noticed: I like to mix things up; I love keeping people on their toes. I revel in blowing the dust off and sparking far-flung reaches of your brain into frantic activity. It’s also about my own personal enjoyment though: variety is the spice of life, right?

And you have to admit, you have no idea what I might do next.

Without further ado, the results of a photo session from a sunny Spring (Summer?!) afternoon!

A pretty good start. Especially the slightly-quirked eyebrow and pursed lips.

I should explain the next strip of photos: I have a friend called Abi and she recently initiated me into the Way Of The X. Where you make an… X… with your fists/hands. It’s cooler than it sounds. Really, try it. Anyway, this is seven quick photos taken in succession, of me doing THE X. If you don’t get it, that’s fine — just marvel at the facial expressions.

That’s a little weird, I admit…

The thing is, I’d be lying if I said if that was my first attempt at capturing THE X. In fact, it took me about half an hour to ‘nail it’. That means there’s a lot of out-takes. Like… 200 of them. Here’s a small sample, just to prove that I am capable of some truly awesome facial expressions (and you ain’t seen nothing yet!)

Julia Roberts has got nothing on my mouth.

Constipation.

Channel the rage, Sebastian. CHANNEL IT.

… Um… some kind of… Jewish Shylock? Or… something? I don’t know.

A rare example of me actually smiling! Well, about to smile. I cracked up at my father, who insisted on crashing my little photo session…

That’s it for now. The next time you see my expressive face, I should be in a doctor’s jacket for Ask Me Anything on Friday — and if you have anything on your mind this week, ask me!