Over the last week or so, a question has been troubling the inner recesses of my mind. In the twenty two years that I have been alive, twenty two years that have at times been full of debauchery, excess and more cheesy eighties pop music than Rick Astley could shake a power lunch at, I have often pondered deep and philosophical thoughts. What is the meaning of life? Is there a God? Does Sarah Harding look better as a blonde or brunette or should she just go the full hog and Nicola Roberts it? Life is one question after another, an ever rolling, ever racing river of experiences.
And yet, I cannot profess to have been ever stumped by a query as important as this.
What is better: Sex or A Nice Cup of Tea?
Over the course of this debate, I shall argue both points, employing every skill I ever learnt in Year Ten English (not counting how to lie through the throes of solvent abuse) in order to reach a considered conclusion. I shall explore the positives and limitations of both topics and look at how they affect us in a daily environment. Further to this, I shall pepper the entry with lots of pretty pictures so people don’t get bored, and should they wish, stare at a massive pair of giant tits instead of the big long words. For example, take this image of former Hollyoaks and I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here star Gemma Atkinson, staring laviciously at the screen, begging you to undress her barely contained Double DD Breasts from their straining lacy bra. Do you like that? Do you? Do you really like that?
That is an example of a positive aspect of sex.
Sex is something quite a lot of people do, quite regularly at various points of the day. We are all, in fact, a product of sex, whether it be a loving embrace between two people deeply in touch with their American rom-com feelings, or a University student taking it twenty ways from the entire rugby team whilst the alcoholic coach with venereal issues films proceedings (and as somebody who studied at Bournemouth for three years, I can confirm this happens on a regular basis among students of PR and Travel and Tourism.) Sex gets a massive lift for simply being the reason that we are all here, and the sole basis for the continuation of the human race. So sex has won right? Surely nothing can beat that.
Except it’s not all good. Those reading this, especially British people with no jobs and a dependency problem may be familiar with a concept named ‘The Jeremy Kyle Show’. This televisual supernova spectacular, the staple of ITV2’s daytime planning is a bonafide reason why sex can sometimes not be a good thing. Let me give you a quick background. 2011 Britain is currently split into two segregated groups: Those who have appeared on ‘The Jeremy Kyle Show’ and those who watch it whilst pretending to hate it. It is estimated that quite a large cross section of the public have graced Jezza’s stage at some point in their lives; around 38% of English people, 4% of Irish gypsies and 187% of all Scottish residents. Estimates for the Welsh have not yet come in, as they have not yet acquired roads, television or mobile communication but it is thought that Kyle will be heading to Cardiff at some point in the next six and a half years to become the new Jamie Oliver.
‘The Jeremy Kyle Show’ highlights some of the reasons why sex can be a bad thing. Numerous one night stands, friends with benefits and ‘the condom breaking Jeremeh” have filled Britain with a multitude of inbred scallywags whose lives ambition is to spend twenty eight minutes being shouted at by a short big eared gnome before heading into the dreaded aftercare with Graham the Genius Serial Killer. This is all Sex’s fault. If Sex didn’t happen then none of this would be possible. If the human race ceased to exist then we would no longer have to put up with forty year old women who look like they’ve swum through the Sahara screaming at ‘the slag from down the street’ for injecting their six month old triplets with ketamine. No sex means no great unwashed. The only other option would end in a national shortage of coat hangers from MotherCare.
Sex is also messy, it’s hard work, and things get spilled on sheets. Stains do not come out even after you’ve washed the bed three times and have resorted to blaming the dog. However it can also be fun, a little bit saucy and can often end with criminal convictions of such a creative ilk, one could not even dream such a glorious nightmare (you can see my full public record by visiting your local council offices or police constabulary. Discretion is advised. Not suitable for minors or anybody with sensitivity to strobe lighting.)
And then, on the other hand, there’s tea. The saviour of life, the quencher of thirst, the teasing little madam who calls you from the bone china cup screaming, ‘dunk your biscuits in me you bad boy, dunk them in me good!’ Tea is as much of a staple of British life as knowing the queen, living in London, and eating cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. It is the ultimate in comfort food (except it’s a drink), its the call of your Northern mother, waiting at the door with a steaming cuppa after a hard day down the mines, the gossip between ladies who lunch and the saucy giggle of the next door neighbour as she beckons you over to your house whilst not wearing any knickers. Tea is the construct of society. Sex makes us human, but tea makes us alive. It’s silky, its smooth, its rich, its decadent, its creamy. It’s exactly like Gemma Atkinson’s screamingly good breasts.
But loyalty to tea is not infallible, and there are times when personal alleigence can be compromised and a dramatic switchover to aromatic coffee entails. This usually happens to the average British person on two occasions in their lifetime. First, whilst reading Stieg Larrson’s Millennium Trilogy (‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo etc.) The references to cups of coffee and open sandwiches are so frequent that the reader becomes disorientated and eventually indoctrinated to the point where they forget about being British, and instead merge into a dashing Swede who saves the world and absolutely one hundred percent does not resemble an idealized version of the author. Not a jolt. Or an iota. Mikael Blomkvist is in no way anything like Stieg Larrson. At all. The second example is likely during the regular waits for Amazon to deliver the next series of Battlestar Galactica on DVD. During the 5-9 day period in which no Jamie Bamber action is present, the deprived Briton is likely to revert back to their treasured DVD collection of 90’s comedy Keeping Up Appearances, and thus, become mesmirized by Hyacinth Bucket’s amusing penchant for inviting her clumsy neighbour Elizabeth round for a cup of coffee. Wanting to be just like social butterfly Mrs Bucket, they will also invite their community around for amusing chats around their cafetiere and thus, a switchover to coffee is presented.
Tea can also be messy. One might spill it somewhere, for example on the trouser leg. Injuries to the penis as a result of scalding tea dripping down a limb have risen a massive 342.98% in just the last month. The Daily Mail have blamed this unprecedented hike on gangs of roaming youths, homosexuals who own a B&B and Gordon Brown. They have also said that if that nice lady Margaret Thatcher was back in office, none of this could have possibly happened as back in the day, people drunk tea with dignity and middle class and such grotesque behaviour would have never been witnessed in good old Blighty.
So Sex or a Cup of Tea?
After evaluating both items constructively and critically, I can reveal my penchant for a nice cup of tea. Though there are many decisions to consider whilst drinking tea (milky, strong, amount of sugars), usually a good deal of practise can result in finally being able to come up with the perfect cuppa. On the other hand, for most of you reading this, no matter how much you practise sex, you will still be rubbish at it, so should probably stop now before you have to get a DNA test on The Jeremy Kyle Show.
A Nice Cup of Tea.
Music of the Moment – Something Classical and Refined and not at all Sexy.