This is an extremely useful book, if you want to figure out what you're doing before diving in tongue-first. I like to purchase copies for all of my multiple bedroom partners, in order to ensure that they know what to expect. Still, while there are few things that I enjoy more than having an agile tongue darting in and out of my balloon knot, it's important to accept that indulging in the performance of such acts is certainly not going to be for everyone. I've been told that my back-passage is rather like Marmite. What's that? You either love it or you hate it, do I mean? No, that wasn't where I was going at all. My mistresses all absolutely hate it, without fail. That's why I have to pay those who are willing quite so handsomely, in order to get my kicks. I compared my ring-piece to Marmite because it's all brown and sludgy and often contains yeast.

If you too are a gentleman who has recently heard about the strong scientific evidence that women are overwhelmingly more likely to sleep with strangers during ovulation, I'm afraid that this product isn't as useful as it might sound. Brilliant as it would be to hit the streets brandishing a device that can covertly and reliably narrow a crowded club down to those who are most likely to be game for an animalistic bunk-up, this just isn't it! You see, there's something of a catch 22 here- given that you are faced with the same basic requirement of talking your prey's legs open, simply to get started on the preliminary hormonal reconnaissance. If anything I'd have to say that it's actually all the more difficult to manipulate a complete stranger into parting her thighs over a small glass beaker, than it is to have her spread-eagled in anticipation of a saveloy invasion. Despite no shortage of effort, my attempts to to concoct a believable cover story (with which I could casually broach the subject of obtaining a specimen, without arousing feelings of either mistrust or suspicion) were doomed. Try as I might, neither my spiel nor the test samples ever seemed to start flowing freely and easily. Or even to start flowing at all.

Anyway, not wanting to waste the product, I decided to make a rare exception to my policy of strict adherence to the Vine regulations- and gave the device to my daughter Dawn, for her to try out. A devout Roman Catholic, Dawn takes a dim view of contraception, which she considers to be an appalling evil that defies the very fundaments of Christian morality and which dares to mock the infinite wisdom of the Lord himself. She says that the machine was easy to operate and gave a strong indication of the days on which it would be necessary to limit each and every prospective entrant to her body to the mouth and "bonus tunnel" (ie the "reserve chute"). If you're as staunch a moralist as she, this is an absolutely first-rate ecumenical loophole through which to set about performing religiously-compliant contraception by proxy, without technically doing anything to infuriate the eternal powers up high. Sure enough, thanks to the virtual contraception, Dawn has now got through two whole consecutive months without Daddy having to take her on a trip down to the abortion clinic- successfully equalling the record that she had last achieved as a fourteen year old!!! Brilliant stuff!

PS Fair play to them, I say, for failing to offer refills of the cheap paper strips and instead leaving you having to pay for a whole new unit, once you run out. If more companies were prepared to propagate such senseless wastage of the earth's resources in the name of an extra buck, the economy wouldn't be in such a terrible mess right now.

Okay, I'm going to keep it relatively brief on these silly raspberry pills, as I've got bigger kettles of fish in small ponds to fry. If you're hoping that this really is a miraculous aid to weight loss, then be aware that it didn't make any discernable difference at all. I failed to notice any change in my appetite and I actually gained a kilogramme in mass. Arguably, I may possibly have been eating a lot more calories than normal. While I wouldn't wittingly rig the experiment, I certainly wouldn't put it past my subconscious to be so stubborn as to put my own physical wellbeing second, as part of a cynical bid to prove the product's ineffectiveness. Either way, if you really want to lose weight, you're going to need to eat healthily and get yourself a pogostick or some rollerblades or something, in order to burn calories- whether you're taking fruit pills or not.

Although these supposedly have no side effects, they don't sit easily in the stomach and you'll definitely need to accompany them with some food (such as a doner kebab or a beansprout and celery smoothie, depending on how seriously you're setting about the attempt to achieve weight loss). Just because it came from something natural, it doesn't necessarily mean that the body is going to welcome the condensed version. I'd rather lose weight by adding 100 punnets of raspberries to my diet every day, than eat a pill version. Probably the best thing of all about the product is that it makes your burps smell of raspberries- but sadly, the benefits don't show at the other end of the digestion cycle. If there were a product that could have my wife blowing off the fragrance of raspberries rather than noxious fumes, I'd be buying it by the job-lot and forcefeeding it to her under duress, if need be. Unfortunately, however, it was no more adept at converting her pungent bumhole into an airfreshener than it was at reducing my waistband.

Having never heard of an epilator, I'm afraid that I ordered this in something of a hurry- having assumed that it would either be something to do with Pilates or for treating piles. Imagine my shock, upon discovering that it's actually designed for pulling your hair out! Unfortunately, I'm not allowed to let my wife use it, as that's explicitly against the terms and conditioners. However, Amazon said that if I don't review it I can't claim any more items this month! Still, as they say, if life deals you a bad hand then make lemonade. If I was going to have to road test it, I decided that I might as well make a proper night of it, just like them ladies do. So, I placed an array of scented candles all around the bathtub, poured myself a large glass of red, popped "The best of Gloria Gaynor" on the stereo and arranged a towel upon my head in the shape of a turban. In spite of the soothing aloe vera bubble bath, I can only say that the experience of plucking my legs hurt like buggery (and believe me, after the two years I did at her majesty's pleasure for tax evasion, I speak from a place of bitter experience). If pain's your game, I know a young lady called Miss Adventure who can offer a much more appealing brand of agony for a similar fee (although I have heard rumours that she's been linked to a number of deaths, so take care!). Although I've never been bitten to death by giant African ants with a leg fetish, I can't imagine that it would be significantly more painful than using this piece of kit.

Still, on the plus side, my legs are now as smooth as a shaved baby's bottom. Combined with the benefits of my Airbrush Tanning System and my calf toning TENS device (also generously provided by amazon vine) I now have the kind of calves that could reasonably adorn the front page of Cosmopolitan magazine, or possibly even Razzle. A Japanese businessman would probably pay good money to eat raw fish off of legs like these. Also, I had decided that if I was going to go hairless, I might as well do some good out of it by trying to earn a little money for a really good cause. While I've never been the type to blow my own trumpet, frankly it's more of a tuba, in this case- or possibly even a sousaphone, if anything. Yes, I raised a huge amount in sponsorship, which I hope will make a real difference to people's lives. If you take a look in the local papers next week, you'll see a photo of me handing a giant cardboard cheque for £5000 to our local representative for the Conservative party.

Firstly, in case you've never heard of George Lamb, he's a television presenter. His credits include the shows "Lamb-Bader" (a documentary in which he explores the life of world war two pilot Douglas Bader. Footage of battle scenes is accompanied by the "Lambada" for the sake of added dramatic effect). Recently he also made "Lamb-peter" (in which he went about the town of Lampeter, exposing himself to local residents). And who could forget channel 5's "'S-Lamb in the Lamb" (in which he was filmed having intercourse with an underage sheep. Whenever the intensity of his thrusts started flagging, Geoffrey Parsons was on hand to holler his catchphrase "Slam in the lamb!", from off of the old British meat council adverts)? He also featured in the documentary "F-lamb-bards" in which he went to Flambards, Cornwall, in order to research Celtic poets). My personal favourite was "Lamb-basting" (in which he made a poor attempt to baste a leg of lamb, before receiving a lambasting from professional chefs. And from TV critics). If you didn't see any of those, you may still remember his guest appearance on a special celebrity edition of the show "A-man-to Lamb" (in which Amanda Lamb took three legally-certified males and challenged them to display the necessary skills required for delivering young, during the lambing season).

Anyway, with such an illustrious CV to his name, it's no surprise to see Lamb having tribute paid to his career, via these edible cake decorations. If you make a lot of cupcakes then why not add a little g-lamb-our to them?

I was more than a little alarmed when I found this ebook on sale- having spent the last year or so working on a book that was to have had the exact same title! It was with the utmost relief that I discovered that this is actually a different kettle of worms altogether. Whereas my own work is a diary of my weekly encounters with Rosemary (a convent-schooled nineteen year old, with whom I became acquainted via an extreme fetish website) this book is about different uses for the namesaked herb. That said, there is a surprising degree of similarity between some of the ideas. "Smell it", "mask it", "rub it", "spread it", "spray it", "oil it", "burn it" and "stand on it". All of these are 100% genuine chapter titles from this book- not to mention frequent uses that I too have found for young Rosemary (who loves nothing better than to be dehumanised by being impersonally labelled as "it"). I was only surprised that the author neglected to mention tying Rosemary up in a bundle. That certainly features prominently within my own typical day's usage. She goes especially wild if I spend half an hour working her over with a riding crop, before freeing her.

Anyway, short as the book is, there is some rather interesting information here. I had absolutely no idea that Rosemary was regarded as an aphrodisiac (the herb, I mean- I've certainly yet to suffer the slightest issue with flaccidity when in the nubile female's submissive presence). I've not read any rival books about the herb, but I suspect that this one dumps on them from a great height. Ah, that triggers an interesting thought. Pending a little experimentation, I think I might now be in a position to call my own book "31 ways to use Rosemary"!

As the mother of three rather large children, it's hardly surprising that my wife Doreen has loosened up a little around the edges since the days of her youth. This physical issue is something that she tends to be rather self-conscious about- which I fear is not greatly helped by my occasional tendency to refer to the sheer girth of her "wizard's sleeve" in polite company. If truth be told, I've now gone and put my foot right in it more times than I can remember (a fact that I have to be even more careful not to inadvertently reference in polite company!). Anyway, early days yet, but things seem to have been progressing a little. Arguably, acts of intimacy are still tantamount to waving a salami about in an abandoned aircraft hangar- but it's certainly a step up from Wembley Stadium! Things definitely seem to be improving so, as in one of the booby-trapped rooms you'd get in an Indiana Jones film, hopefully her "walls" will gradually continue to encroach towards the point where they might someday make physically perceptible contact.

I've been offered some rather interesting stuff overs the years, on the amazon Vine programme. However, I'd certainly never been offered three litres of premium grade coconut water before- and leapt at the chance to accept. Why, I hear you ask? Well, let me set the scene. In short, it's a matter of virgins. Much as everyone loves them, there's a bit of a problem with virgins. While demand has never yet let up, and quite probably never will, as a commodity they're becoming increasingly scarce. Even if you can get your hands on one, the thing about virgins is that somehow they never seem to be quite as readily compliant as you might hope.

Which is exactly where the coconut water came in! Immediately after having placed the order, I went on the Internet to post a "wanted" advert. You see, the secret to virgins is to appreciate that the reason they will have been saving themselves is typically that they are old-school romantics, who need to be wooed. Their whole life will have been spent awaiting that certain "moment". A uniquely intimate moment, in which two souls can intertwine in both mental and physical communion. Offer them such a moment and make them feel like someone truly special and they'll melt into your arms. Anyway, I posted an ad saying:

"Mucky female virgin/virgins wanted, to share sordid candle-lit bath in coconut water with rampant older gent on viagra. Please bring own towel."

To be honest, the response was surprisingly weak. I did get one enthusiastic reply from a young lady in Thailand, although she seemed worryingly keen that I should first agree to divorce Doreen and take her hand in marriage. And take out an expensive life insurance policy upon myself, which she specified must include a clause that would definitely pay out in the event of unforeseen murder/violent death. Frankly, I'd divorce Doreen for a go on the one-legged girl who works in the fishmongers, if it didn't mean losing my house. However, my instincts told me that there was something a bit funny about this one. Preliminary testing also revealed that three litres scarcely fills a bath enough to get your balls faintly damp- never mind enough to sate a ravenous virgin's yearnings to be rogered senseless, whilst submerged to the midriff in fragrant coconut water.

Anyway, having decided against fulfilling plan A via a Thai bride, plan B was to attempt a Thai green curry and a couple of exceedingly camp cocktails. When you weigh up the relative abundance of willing virgins against that of green curry paste, aubergines, Bacardi and pineapple juice, the likelihood of scoring curry and pina coladas wins hands down against the likelihood of a saucy nude bath. Or at least, it would have done, had we not reached the Easter Bank holidays- with the result of Tesco being closed. In the end, I just swigged the stuff au naturale- straight out of the plastic bottle. It's neither the nicest drink in the world nor truly disgusting. For those who claim it doesn't taste like coconut, I have to wonder whether they've ever tried an actual coconut or are simply comparing it to them ones in the blue wrappers, from off of a tin of Quality Street? Not a bad purchase, but if you're only viewing this as a gateway to the opportunity to spend an evening bathing among virgins, you're just deluding yourself. Would you please just pull your head out of the clouds and get a grip on reality, for Christ's sake?! What do you think you're actually achieving from all this silly fantastical nonsense? Anything? I really don't think so...

Having never encountered the work of Benjamin Bonetti before, I was rather surprised to hear that he has already racked up a million product sales- not as a gay porn star, as his name might suggest, but as a hypnotherapist. While waiting for the product to arrive, Doreen and I amused ourselves by debating which nickname would have been the most entertaining to have referred to him by at school (before seizing his lunch money and pushing him down a muddy bank into a patch of nettles). In the end, we settled on "Benny Bone-eater".

Anyway, the CD has proved to be rather effective. To be honest, I'd already given up a couple of days before I even started to listen- which was probably inspired by the front cover. Don't be fooled by the fact that he looks rather like how a teenaged Louis Theroux must once have appeared (assuming that the younger Theroux had decked himself out in bum-fluff and tried to pass it off for a "beard"). There's something of the power of "Hypno-toad" behind those authoritatively mesmerising eyes. I don't know exactly how to describe it, but that magnetic gaze somehow conveys a sincere quality of concern and sympathetic understanding, despite paradoxically appearing scathingly judgemental and condescending.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I've not been smoking at all whilst listening. Admittedly, however, I have been working my way through as many of three tins of snuff per week (and am so addicted that I usually have to pause the recording halfway through, to snort a quick pinch)- so I'm wondering whether there are any plans for a sequel?

This is an excellent t-shirt, with an exceedingly witty joke behind it. When asked, simply whip the t-shirt over your head, to reveal a terrifying dinosaur. I bought one for all of the family. Fortunately, they come in a variety of sizes and I had no more of a problem finding a t-shirt to accommodate my daughter Dawn's 34DD sized chest than in finding one for myself. Apparently Dawn's male workmates have yet to tire of asking about her T-Rex although, to be honest, I sometimes can't help but wonder whether there's perhaps a little more to the whole thing than the dinosaur gag itself? Either way, my wife Doreen doesn't seem to receive anywhere near as many enquiries as her daughter (even though she too ditched all her bras recently, after they both heard about the new survey that debunked their supposed benefits).