Just zip it about your huge totty tally chaps



08:04 GMT, 16 March 2012

Boasting: Coronation Street's Bill Roach claims to have slept with 1,000 women

Boasting: Coronation Street's Bill Roach claims to have slept with 1,000 women

Men, pay attention. There are some things in life that should always remain a secret between yourself, your conscience and your shattered underpants.

And the number of women you have slept with is right at the top of that banned list. Just zip it, please, in more ways than one.

The contents of your very own sex register should be a private matter. It should remain hush-hush, mush.

If you are keeping a count — creepy enough in itself — then do the decent, gentlemanly thing and keep your totty tally to yourself. Public disclosure can only lead to humiliation and worse.

Look at the reaction to Bill Roache’s dirty laundry confession this week that he has slept with 1,000 women.

First, there was a great, big, bubbly boil wash of general hilarity (not our kimono-wearing Ken!) followed by a disapproving cold rinse.

Especially when the 79-year-old actor, who plays Ken Barlow in Coronation Street, admitted: ‘I didn’t have any control over my sex drive.’

Oh, poor Bill. Imagine having no power over your very own loins. It must be agony! It must make the average pet rabbit look, if not prim, then at least sexually temperate.

And it brings forth a nightmarish
vision of Bill, his sandy fringe flopping in exertion as he careens
across the Corrie cobbles with some crazed wild animal writhing around
unbidden in his boxers. The wildebeest of lust, perhaps. That old
Tasmanian devil called love.

Of course, what Bill is really saying is that he didn’t start the fire. It wasn’t his fault. He just couldn’t help himself!

an interview for Piers Morgan’s Life Stories, to be broadcast on ITV
early next month, Bill also reveals that, despite his two wives, he had
countless flings over the decades. Including one with actress Pat
Phoenix, who played Elsie Tanner in the popular soap.

Phoenix died of lung cancer in 1986 after marrying long-term lover Tony Booth on her deathbed.

Bill Wyman

Warren Beatty

Tiger Woods

Nick Clegg

Too much information: (clockwise from top left) Rolling Stone Bill Wyman ('thousands'), Warren Beatty ('12,775'), Nick Clegg (‘no more than 30’) and Tiger Woods ('120')

Yes, how lovely for her family to suddenly hear this unchivalrous revelation now. Especially after the actor — whose nickname was C*** Roache — revealed that it was just a one-night stand and that at the time, Phoenix ‘had a reputation’.

Elle for lonely

Good times and bad for Elle Macpherson.

The 47-year-old Australian supermodel is executive producer and host of NBC’s new Fashion Star reality show.

Elle Macpherson

Not only is it as suspenseful as a
badly-sewn handkerchief, hostess-with-the-leastest Elle has the
humourless charm of a cane frog. And why the weird English accent

she’s upset after splitting from boyfriend Jeff Soffer, who is now,
apparently, dating a 25-year-old bikini model. Coincidentally, Elle has
just posed in a bikini for the first time in six years.

‘I had to
get my self-conscious “Maybe I don’t look my best” head out of the way
and go with “Let’s celebrate where I’m at,” ’ she said.

Where she
is at is decades of being known as The Body. Its disingenuous of Elle to
suddenly pretend she’s just like us after all. She sure ain’t. Not now,
not never.

Roache now joins the inglorious list of champion boffers who have confessed in public to the number of women they have slept with. These are the men who have so many notches on their bedposts, they actually sleep in a nest of shredded toothpicks.

And despite their protestations of remorse and even shame, it is hard to see their greasy confessions as anything other than what they really are: big, fat boasts lurking under the cloak of remorse.

Look at eerie Rolling Stone Bill Wyman, who happily admits to sleeping with a cast of ‘thousands’, once claiming to have bedded 265 women in a year. ‘Three or four a night sometimes,’ he once said, as if the girls were glasses of water.

Tiger Woods puts a conservative 120 women on his birdie score sheet, while a biography of priapic Hollywood star Warren Beatty gives him a creepily precise tally of 12,775 women.

Ugh! This does not include ‘casual gropings’, which tells us all we need to know about Warren. None of it good.

Elsewhere, Mick Hucknall admitted to sleeping with thousands of women in a three‑year period.

Fellow singer Julio Iglesias weighs in with an immodest ‘modest figure’ of 3,000, while Lib Dem leader Nick Clegg lost any chance of ever being statesmanlike after admitting that he had slept with ‘no more than 30 women’.

The Cleggasmatron number is an irrelevance — it is the divulgence itself that is so wretched and so disappointing.

Couldn’t he just have said ‘no comment’ and walked away from the problem I’ve never been able to look at him in the same way since.

So, gentlemen, this is what I am saying. Just say no. To answering the question, that is. For to reply truthfully — or even untruthfully — is to shame yourself and do all the ladies in your life a terrible disservice. Even if, like Bill Roache and Mick Hucknall, your philandering is a now matter of deep regret.

Hucknall has expressed many feelings of remorse, saying that how he used to sleep with up to three women a day now makes him feel bad because he ‘hurt some really good girls’.

Really I’m afraid that sounds rather more like the empty brag of someone who can’t pull the chicks any more, rather than a penitent uttering a deep pang of conscience.

At least Bill Roache sportingly revealed that some of the women did call him ‘Ken’ during their most intimate moments.

It makes you wonder. What did Betty put in those hotpots Is there crushed Viagra in the barms on sale at Roy’s Rolls

Whatever it is, something is in the air at Coronation Street. And I wish they’d remove it.

Leave Whitney's girl to grieve

Bobbi Kristina Brown has given her first interview since the death of her mother Whitney Houston last month.

The fragile 19‑year-old was on the Oprah show this week talking about her loss. It wasn’t a pretty sight: a grieving teen served up as prime-time entertainment.

‘She’s always with me,’ Bobbi told Oprah. ‘I feel her pass through me all the time.’

Exploited Oprah with Bobbi Kristina

Exploited Oprah with Bobbi Kristina

The teenager also talked of her plans to carry on her mother’s legacy and become a singer, actress and dancer.

Oprah looked on and nodded, her face a mask of motherly concern that cloaked the glee she must have felt at this ratings-boosting exclusive.

For shouldn’t Bobbi Kristina be left alone to mourn and try to make some sense of her turbulent life in peace, far away from the spotlight It is no secret that she already has her own addiction issues.

Put all this together and you have someone who is far too vulnerable to be appearing on television. It might have been a triumph for Oprah, whose new network is in need of an audience figure fillip, but was it entirely in good taste

Nothing dilutes my fear that Bobbi Kristina is an emotional car crash waiting to happen. Peeled alive on a chat show barely weeks after your mum died

It does not bode well for the future — hers or anyone else’s.
And while we are on the subject, can’t someone in the Houston family camp have a quiet and tactful word in Bobbi Kristina’s ear about her ambitious plans to be a star

To date, she has exhibited very little of the talents that made her mother a legend.

Bobbi can’t be another Whitney — and someone has to tell her that before it’s too late.

It's woggle-boggling

Oh, it is the end of days. When I was a Girl Guide, we were taught how to darn socks, read maps and spot a hedgehog paw print at 40 paces. Proficiency was our watchword. Being good citizens who were helpful to others was our goal.

Today, Guides are encouraged to study face masks, massage and manicures to earn merit badges.

They consult activity packs called Parties, Chocolate and Showtime, as well as Passion 4 Fashion and Glamorama. It’s enough to make your woggle wilt.

In my day, (tamps down baccy, puffs on pipe) if we had turned up wearing even a speck of make-up or — God forbid — nail polish, our Guide leader would have scrubbed it off with carbolic soap and a stern rebuke.

Manicures are what we did to lawns when trying to raise money to save the panda or re-tile the church roof, whatever the cause was that week.

In comparison, today’s Guides sound like a bunch of self-obsessed teens with an unhealthy interest in the Kim Kardashians of this world and the attention span of a gnat.

Look. We are talking about a Guiding age range of between ten and 14 — surely too young for the study of and devotion to all that pampering malarkey

In the rush to hothouse them into a premature adulthood, there isn’t time to celebrate being a girl any more. They’ll never know the innocent delight of a Ging Gang Goolie around the campfire. And that’s a shame.

A doll from the American Girl shop

The American Girl phenomenon has yet to hit the UK, but it can only be a matter of time.

In New York this week, I went to American Girl Place, the store on Fifth Avenue, where the range of 18in dolls and accessories are sold.

The chipmunky-faced dolls portray nine to 11–year–old girls of various ethnicities. Girls buy the one that looks most like them and further personalise their mini-me with spectacles, pigtails, etc.

In the multi-level store they can also buy outfits to match the ones bought for dolly, watch dolly get a new hairsyle in the in-store salon, or visit the restaurant — booked up four months in advance at peak times — where they and dolly are served heart-shaped waffles as real waiters fuss around them.

I haven’t seen so many plastic faces since being in Los Angeles at Oscar time.

Still, the innocence is charming, even if the opulent privilege on show can be cloying.

In my day (here we go again), we were given a clothes peg with eyes and a mouth painted on in felt tip — and an order to keep quiet for three hours. How things change!

I'll have my cake and eat it

Pink cup cake

Pink cup cake

It had to happen. A ‘zero calorie dessert’ that you sniff instead of eating. Vaportrim comes in flavours such as Vanilla Cupcake and Apple Pie and is supposed to work by helping to satisfy cravings so you feel full after a good sniff rather than a good stuff.

The idea is that if you smell the dessert rather than eating it, the brain is fooled into thinking that its sweet craving has been satisfied.

Not this brain, I’m afraid to say. And surely the opposite is true It certainly is in Yogi Bear cartoons, where the behavioural patterns of my favourite ursine gourmand have always set an excellent example of hunter-gatherer techniques at their most evolved: smell picnic, see picnic, steal picnic.

And even if olfactory receptors in the brain are satisfied after a whiff of cupcake, then wouldn’t it be much cheaper just to save your Vaportrim money and walk past a baker’s shop now and again