The Wardman Wire

From Leah what’s-her-name gubbins thingummy in the Spectator having a hack at British men:

English men are widely reputed to be the worst lovers on the planet. For centuries, discerning women from Barcelona to Bangor have complained of their freckled skin, sloped shoulders, fussy tummies and off-putting predilection for ‘naughty’ banalities in the bedroom.

As a single woman who relocated to the UK from Canada a few months ago, I can neither confirm nor deny this unflattering rumour. After dating a passel of them, I still have no idea what English men are like in bed.

Hmmm.

You reach the conclusion they have not got a clue. I reach the conclusion that they probably Googled you.

Writing as an English man, there’s something libido-denying about North American journos specialising in relationships and style who’s last column in the Toronto Globe and Mail turns out to be about the vicissitudes of packing (unless it’s a holiday fling-thing), even if they are “acknowledged beauties”. We just don’t particularly wish to be turned into erotic case studies in your next article; or most of us don’t.

So you are not likely to get very “far”.

Since you are in the profession you are in, with a waspish reputation, my polite and restrained English male advice would be to take a modified leaf from the “way we live now” playbook and offer a pre-tup agreement guaranteeing confidentiality; but perhaps that would destroy the spontaneity in the taxi.

By the way, I wouldn’t call 12 a significant sample to characterise several million. But I do aknowledge that you get reactions.

Read the whole sorry saga in the Spectator.