2af38a6100000578-3179570-image-m-19_1438239292950Those manicured young things sinking outsize glasses of Chardonnay in their Marie-Claire recommended Jason Wu dresses and improbable heels may look as though they are just updating their Facebook page to ‘available’ after Brad lost his cool with his feral brood, but they could be ensuring the future of the human race.

Since the enlightenment enturkeybasted brave new world signalled by Min Chueh Chang’s discovery that he could get a fluffy doe pregnant when the buck was in the next room (a far from helpful discovery in the middle of the myxomatosis epidemic, but that’s academics for you) liberated women have dreamt of a penis free world. Julie Burchill tried to solve the financial crisis by suggesting incarcerating all young men between the ages of 15 and 35, on the grounds that they could be replaced by a test tube in the fridge, and safely in prison there would be no crime, no rape, no socks to wash.

Even in the Turkey-baster epoch though, there remained a problem. Lesbians carted their next door neighbour off to the ivf clinic and saw him closeted in a cubicle with a pile of Playboy magazines and a steely faced nurse demanding whether he was ‘finished’ yet whilst swearing blind he was their partner; medical ethics demanded that at least a semblance of lip-service to old fashioned ways was observed.

In far off Ecuador, Luis Rodriguez opted not to be castrated before declaring himself, ‘herself’, so to speak, and legally becoming a woman under new laws. Gender is a social construct, and all that. Fortunately, further inland, lived Maria Machado, similarly tired of these social constructs, who had herself declared ‘Fernando’ Machado, but without the usual accoutrements hanging around. In time, they met, and now the happy couple will be able to explain to their new born infant, so far nameless, presumably on account of their not having decided which gender ‘it’ is, how mummy used to be daddy and that is how mummy got daddy who used to be mummy well and truly pregnant using the old fashioned conservative method. ‘Mama may have, Papa may have, God bless the child that knows his own’ as Billie Holiday might once have sung.

All this brave new world still required conversations between individuals though, even if they could now avoid physical contact. ‘Would you? This little jar here if you wouldn’t mind’? It’s the smart after dinner conversation in some areas. Hebden Bridge?

The modern world is now free of those messy conversations. Kamal Ahuja has freed us, with a natty new app for your smart phone!

Over your glass of Chardonnay, you can now swipe left and right; not to track down your nearest MP looking for a bit on the side, but to cut out the middleman.

Delivered to your door (‘please give instructions as to where you would like your precious package left in the event of you not being in’) – Perhaps a lawyer’s sperm; its owner described as having brown eyes and dark brown hair, and a strong character, being articulate and deep thinking. ‘He shows particular passion about his photography’. Not to your taste? How about a ‘third-degree black belt martial arts instructor’ described as ‘shy at first’ but ‘a profound thinker’ and ‘well-mannered’.

Take your pick, authorise £950 through your paypal account, and ‘Bob’s its Father’ so to speak. No doubt Amazon will work on their drones to incorporate a turkey baster that will tactfully leave the premises, job done.

There are bound to be cock-ups mistakes at first. The tales of cases of wine being appropriated by a swift footed neighbour before you got home abound; in the event of misdelivery will you be eyeing up the neighbour’s new infant – ‘that’s the mini lawyer I ordered?’…’no it isn’t, it’s one of a pair Corbyn Mark 2’s I got in for the 2015 election, buy one, get one free…’

In fact, speaking of Corbyn Mark 2’s – there’s an idea for Momentum. ‘Keep the momentum going’ – ready in time for the 2035 election; mini-Abbot’s, no need to travel to the Calais jungle to get your neo-liberal future voter…’discount available for affiliated members’. Members? They’ll have to change that word, far too triggering for the modern Ms.

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Brad Pitt is finally back in the land of sanity. Tired of the daily grind with a woman who has had her sense of humour surgically removed to prevent the possibility of a future fit of the giggles, and previously denuded herself of the feeding apparatus normally required for rearing a family of six, he allegedly flipped and told one of the culturally-appropriated and suitably gender-disordered tribe to ‘Shut the F**k up’.

He has behaved with great dignity as he was hove out the back door; he must have seen it coming. I like his style though. Not a word of criticism of his ex-squeeze, just the discrete release of his private photographs of Her Serene Haughtiness. Yes, even the early morning, no make-up, puffy faced one; the flaked out, face down, after too much Chardonnay one – in a pair of distinctly unflattering jogging bottoms, arse upwards; and horror of horror, a ‘pre-surgery’ image showing a flicker of a grin.

Like yer style Brad. A picture demolishes a thousand PR releases.

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Mr G recorded the new Keith Richard’s epic on BBC4. He thought it would be a Rolling Stones-fest – it was better than that.

Keith, in a glorious fug of cigarette smoke, wreathed in smiles and smoke rings, indulging himself. Someone has given him the run of BBC4 for 8 hours a night over this week-end. Do record it if you can.

We had Tony Hancock and Sid James episodes, early pics of Mick Jagger trying to imitate a chicken, Spike Milligan taking the michael out of the generation that stood for the national anthem, Ready Steady Go, followed by more politically incorrect comedy. The odd jam accompanied by that graveyard voice. A baby boomer’s fantasmic experience.

Despite his buccaneer, rebellious, heroin chic image. Richards is as English as they come. Deptford boy made good. He’s never become Jaggerish highfalutin, ballet aficionado; nor Wyman-like manorial hermit – he remains your disreputable friend that you love to catch up with from time to time, who fondly remembers when BBC comedy made you laugh, music made your feet tap, and we all smoked like troopers.

Did anybody catch the name of the female blues singer with the gold teeth? Fantastic voice.

There are more post 70-year-olds than ever before. We pay our licence fee dutifully.

More of this please – and while you are about it, now that you’ve got rid of the chav sex symbol with the double-entendres in ‘Bake Off’, resurrect it in a proper kitchen with an Aga and a smelly Flabrador – and insist they all sing Jerusalem at the end of every episode. There’s a ready made audience out in the rest of England. Call it ‘Shake-off’ and ditch even a hint of the politically correct contestants.

Keith Richards demonstrating his cannabis cookie crumble. There’s a start for you.

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The nights are drawing in; Winterfall is upon us. Theresa May is going to have to sew up those slits in her skirts, and put some cashmere over the ‘Had you noticed I’m a woman’ feeding apparatus.

Not a moment too soon.

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Saturday Evening Posts Worth Reading.

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