Look Ma, no hands...

It’s that time of year again – when the Literary Review announces its longlist for the not so coveted Bad Sex Awards. While everyone else in the world sighs and says, “so what”, our media like to pounce on these things and make the authors squirm.

Normally, the judges go for what is normally considered the more meritorious pieces of literature so they can say Booker Schmooker.  This year however we were almost “rewarded” with the efforts of our ex-Prime Minister, Tony “Love Me Do” Blair. 

Ultimately they decided he was holding back and therefore didn’t merit inclusion on a list which was really intended for fiction.

I hope you are shoe-less when you read this. Then you can watch your toes squirm. It adds to the pleasure of the moment.

You ready?

Here goes...

"That night she cradled me in her arms and soothed me; told me what I needed to be told; strengthened me," he wrote in A Journey. "On that night of 12 May 1994, I needed that love Cherie gave me, selfishly. I devoured it to give me strength. I was an animal following my instinct..."

An animal,Tony? Get you.

I think it’s safe to say we are all wishing he had held even more back. Here’s a joke someone left on a website about the TB Sex God

“Blair is at a big state dinner with Bill Clinton and he looks really miserable. He confides to Clinton that he always gets hell from Cherie when he goes home after one of these "dos" and she hasn't been with him. "Tony", says Clinton "I used to have the same trouble with Hilary 'til I hit on a sure fire way to stop her. I get home and she's in bed. I make as much noise as I can getting upstairs. I slam the bedroom door, shed all my clothes on the floor. Take the presidential dong and whack it three times against the bedhead and loudly proclaim "I'm in the mood for it tonight". She rolls over and pretends to be asleep. Never fails". 

So Blair goes back to No.10, makes a lot of noise getting upstairs. Slams the bedroom door, divests himself of his clothes and whacks the prime ministerial dong three time against the bedhead. And Cherie says "Bill? Is that you? You'll have to hurry - Tony'll be home any minute!"

Blair’s former press secretary also unintentionally gets in on the Bad Sex act with his second novel, Maya – the judges quoted a passage which climaxes thusly "the walls were going to fall down as we stroked and screamed our way through hours of pleasure to the union for which my whole life had been a preparation".

That’s just bad writing, dude.

The judges were unimpressed by the hype surrounding this autumn's standout fiction title, Jonathan Franzen's Freedom.

You ready for this? You’re not munching on some Scooby snacks while you’re reading this are you? If so put it to the side and grab a bucket.

“ One afternoon, as Connie described it, her excited clitoris grew to be eight inches long, (here the blogger paused and said, EH?) a protruding pencil of tenderness with which she gently parted the lips of his penis and drove herself down to the base of its shaft.(here the blogger paused and said, EH?) Another day, at her urging, Joey described to her the sleek warm neatness of her turds as they slid from her anus and fell into his open mouth, where, since these were only words, they tasted like excellent dark chocolate."

Man, that is just gross.

That’s how the supposed literary greats do it. How do you like your literary sex?