His instrument: the worst ways a man can refer to his own genitalia

LIKE Eskimos having a hundred words for snow, adult men have a wide variety of names for the thing hanging between their legs. Here are the worst:


It’s a bad enough word on its own, but it’s rarely seen without its bile-raising adjective partners: swollen, turgid or, worst of all, engorged. It’s a strangely formal name for genitalia and still makes you want to throw up.


You’re only allowed to refer to a body part using this name if it’s swaddled behind woollen breeches and chainmail as part of your uniform as a medieval knight. And even then, any fair maiden worth her salt would consider you a creep, while being forced to marry you regardless.


It’s not a mighty piped keyboard that soars to the ceiling of a cathedral, it’s a flesh tube you piss out of. It is therefore is not worthy of the name. If you must compare it to a musical instrument, be honest and call it a piccolo.


Half unpleasantly clinical, half something that would appear in a Jilly Cooper novel, this shouldn’t be used by anyone in any romantic setting. The only thing that will turn your partner off quicker is if you insist on calling it ‘Little Gary’, or whatever your first name is. Calling it ‘Little Gary’ when you’re called Phil begs even more questions.


You’d need to be pretty confident in the size department if you’re prepared to go ahead and call it your ‘length’ before the object of your affections has seen it. They’ll be well within their rights to accuse you of false advertising if it would have been more accurately described as your ‘tininess’.


Very few people have looked at defrosted lamb mince and thought to themselves that it has a physical quality they would like for their own privates. In fact, if your knob looks like any sort of meat product at all, including a saveloy, you should visit your GP.

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I shagged a ghost, and other bollocks stories in downmarket women's magazines

PERUSING Take A Break and its ilk in Tesco? Brace yourself for these utterly insane stories:

I shagged a ghost

If you’ve been on the fence as to believing whether ghosts exist or not, why not let a story about a care worker from Hull who thinks they made love to the spirit of a Victorian coal miner convince you? Rather than suggesting this person simply had some depraved sex dream, the magazine reports it as solid, unshakeable fact.

My husband is my brother

Without fail, there will be a story about a couple who are, in some way, related by blood. The gold standard is when they find some lunatic who met and married someone, discovered they were a long-lost sibling and decided to remain together. Even incest can’t stand in the way of true love.

My cat is Hitler reincarnated

This story will feature a photo of the owner solemnly holding up a white cat that has a patch of black fur on its upper lip. The only other evidence there is for this outlandish claim on is that the cat once scratched a gay friend of theirs. The only logical conclusion: it’s the reincarnation of Hitler.

My guinea pig is psychic

Psychic animals are always popular, as this story about a guinea pig that munches on lettuce just before a tragic incident occurs will demonstrate. No one points out that guinea pigs munch lettuce multiple times a day so it’s all just a coincidence. That would be far too level-headed and reality-based.

I farted for 100 hours

Rather than treating such a story with the hilarity it deserves, a red-top mag will report it very seriously and feature a picture of the farter looking sad and pointing at their bum. It’s hugely embarrassing to admit to the nation that you have such a terrifying intestinal issue, but at least you’ve got £250 and something to show the grandchildren in years to come.