Pimp My Sperm (Using Collage As A Method)

There are many things I have done on a kitchen table fortified by cheap white wine but as this is a family blog I am reluctant (for once) to go into detail. One of the less thrilling practices is helping the offspring do their homework, particularly tasks which involve potentially ‘start the car we’re off to casualty’ instruments of doom such as superglue, scissors, toxic marker pens or anything small or tempting enough to lodge in an orifice. As long as it’s not anything to do with arithmetic, history, cloud formations or wildlife in the Tundra it’s a painless interlude between the second and third glass and has the added benefit of clashing with  The One Show. 

As I recall homework was never particularly thrilling. Along with eating sprouts; lighting farts; blasting hair spray onto an open fire (Wowza-I never did like my eyebrows anyway) and juggling with eggs,  homework was a rite of passage for any child with some modicum of ability and parents who vaguely cared.     

Last night my 11 year old came home and announced that, without as much as a titter, that he had to make a sperm cell collage and did we have any suggestions? I am convinced that for a moment my dear wife looked at me, then at an empty coffee mug and whispered ‘over to you Andrew’ but thankfully she kept her counsel. We both laughed. Well you do don’t you? But the child was serious and would not deviate from the task in hand…even though the latest Celtic- Rangers brawl was unfolding on SKY and I could hear the crunching tackles and racist barbs from the next room.

So we all headed for the ‘drawer’- the one with everything you need yet don’t need- for inspiration. Bingo. Some old ear buds and string. And those funny little comedy eyeballs with moving parts. What fun!

I had to go onto Google to remind myself what an actual sperm looked like. (A little tip- have a very broad mind when you delve deep into Google Images). I actually couldn’t remember if they had eyes……(did you? No, thought not.)

Armed with a couple of images we knocked up the collage in half an hour or so, and we were all quietly satisfied with the end result. Yes we did include eyes…..and here it is in all its glory.

Homework safely stored inside the backpack we retired to muse about this intriguing sexual twist to ‘prep’. Later, with the kids safely dispatched to bed, we decided that at no stage in our education – whether aged 6 or 16 and at all points in-between, would there have been the remotest chance of  such homework being given to us in the Sixties, Seventies and early Eighties. As I recall even discussing the sex life of plants brought our science teacher out in a sweat and he had to lean on the blackboard and open windows to recover.  For naive students, even a grainy overhead projector image of a dangling stamen entering the ovary of a flower resulted in hysterics.

So why sperm at 11? Too young? We knew it was on its way… so to speak. Last month the school sent parents a letter warning  them that sex education was on the agenda. Did this happen when I was a lad? No idea to be honest. But it feels OK that both our kids are aware of all the ins and outs of the subject….and it’s led to some remarkably frank discussions about well, y’know…..(blushes). Must go and open a window, it’s getting warm in here….

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Cows And Sex And Slappers

Hot to Trot

Hot to Trot

If you are of a sensitive disposition and not used to reading a racy blog laced with love and seduction then please look away now.

It all started at the weekend when Vole Junior looked out of the car window. “”Hey Dad, one cow’s on top of another. What’s it doing?”

I looked to see two cows ‘at it’ (ish) but there were no udders in sight which could mean only one thing…..gay cow sex.

I decided 0843 was too early in the morning, and perhaps five years too early to explain this to a 10-year-old so I applied classic deflection tactics all parents will know well.

“They’re just being friendly…..now what bar of chocolate do you want at the garage?” 

And that I thought would be that. I had got away with it.

Until last night. At the dinner table. Perhaps it was the chicken breast that did it.

“What’s a slapper?”

I looked down suddenly taking  great interest in the sprouts. “Mrs Vole?”

“Ask your father” she retorted combing it with a withering look which reminded me she knew of girlfriends from the distant past.

Eventually he appeared satisfied that it was someone who had lots of ‘friends’ and wasn’t particularly picky.

Next question…..”what’s a prostitute?”

We referred him to answer we’d given moments earlier….adding “but for money”

The final one put the tin lid on it…..almost literally.

“What’s a condom…..is it a hat for your willy?”

Child sent to bed.

Parents  turn to drink.