In the modern, gobby, blogging world, every ostensibly obvious fact is up for debate. You and I — observers who are serene, wise-eyed, and possibly unfairly attractive — know full well that public transport, Kettle crisps and the collected works of the Bee Gees are undoubtedly good things. Dairy Lea Lunchables, the total collapse of Western Civilisation and Kate Thornton, on the other hand, are clearly quite bad.

But however obvious these things are to us, there are many who could waste your time arguing the opposite. Indeed, I would wager that they probably have, and will continue to do so, until — by now slightly peevish at how truculent and wrong-headed the rest of humanity is — you die.

However, even with all this vexatious multiplicity of opinion abounding in the world, there does exist a proposition that one would, not unreasonably, presume everyone would be up for. While one doesn’t wish to be indelicate in printed matter that could be being deployed over breakfast, or on a crowded commuter train — or possibly even, given our modish micro-format, the waxing table — the matter I refer to is a universally joyous one. I’m talking about . . . you know. Hoggins. Having a slice. Le petit mort. Climax. Not “The Big O” that refers to the late Roy Orbison, but the other one. We all, surely, like a bit of that.

In recent weeks, two mavens of Sixties feminism, Fay Weldon and Dr Germaine Greer, have written headline-attracting articles about sex. Of course, it is not difficult for a woman to attract headlines by writing about sex. Such is society’s current enthusiasm for the subject that a woman who merely says “I have heard of sex” can be guaranteed a healthy eight inches ... of print. But what has been notable is the concorde to which the two women have come. Or, to be even more brazenly frank, not come. For both writers have admitted to regularly faking orgasm. Weldon claims that “faking is kind to partners of the New Man kind”. She suggests that, having faked orgasm, women should jump out of bed, pour champagne and tell their partner “You’re so clever!”, and surmises that “happy, generous-minded women, who are not too hung up on emotional honesty, fake it”.

Greer, meanwhile — during the course of a scholarly dissertation on the history of the female orgasm in The Times last week — claimed that “most of us fake orgasm, often”, and went on admiringly to describe the porn video starring the socialite Paris Hilton who, “hugely rich and self-willed”, didn’t have to pretend to be enjoying sex. Hilton lies on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, while some callow youth tinkered around down her business end. “Attagirl,” Greer concluded, about a woman who had lain “motionless and mute” throughout.

Well, hey. While I don’t wish to come across as a licentious giblet hound — the First World Whore, if you will — these sentiments do come across as a bit of a sock in the chops to all I hold dear. Indeed, to all that I understand about men and women. While I don’t intend to portray everyone I associate with as a hell-bound fleshpot — although, to be fair, that is one of my primary friendship criteria — no one in my social circle regards sex in the manner that Weldon and Greer do. For the cheery slatterns I know, the idea of faking orgasm is a surreally ludicrous notion: as stupid as pretending to sleep. Or lying about whether you’ve got your leg stuck in a man-trap and require urgent medical help.

The men, meanwhile, would be horrified by the underlying notion of Greer and Weldon’s assumptions — in a nutshell, that they are all a terrible lay. Back in my unmarried days, when I could do wide-ranging research on this, I found it not to be the case at all. Generally, and the patriotic will be gladdened by this news, the young British male is a great lay. The widespread availability of Cosmopolitan in most waiting rooms, coupled with the late 20th century NHS funding crisis, means that the average young British male has spent up to 30 hours of his life reading pertinent sex tips in chick mags while waiting for a tetanus jab. Combine this with the concept of brief, factual exchanges during the time of jiggyness, and there’s no reason why all parties concerned need not reach the end of a sexual escapade refreshed, relaxed and with their eyes rolling into the backs of their skulls.

Of course, the jaded, faking Weldon and Greer are, presumably, having to have sex with male Boomers — a generation of men who, while peerless in their creation of genre-defining blues-rock, were also the last generation to believe that a woman’s place was barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen.

Given such unpromising sexual resources, it’s easy to see how Greer and Weldon could have come to such an illogical conclusion: ie, that the secret to a woman’s happiness is to find a promising relationship with a man eager to note evidence of your sexual fulfillment, and then lie to him, short-change yourself, and subsequently live the rest of your life in a fug of resentment and exorbitant sex-toy battery fees. It is, let’s face it, also incredibly stupid.

So long, liposuckers

Recently, the mayor of Ibagué, a city 80 miles west of Bogotá, agreed to finance tummy tucks, buttock lifts and other aesthetic operations for the city’s public employees. To date, more than 400 women have taken advantage of the offer. I do wonder if this might be a case of public sector mismanagement.

After all, it would take approximately ten seconds for a woman with a rump like a sack of spuds to think: “I will take a job at the council, get half my buttocks shaved off for free, then quit and get a better-paid job in the private sector, aided by my hot new ass. Olé!” If I were the mayor of Ibagué — and it’s something I would consider, if only because it would make a good log-in name on eBay — I would make some swift adjustments to employment contracts.

A tummy tuck would tie you into a four-year contract, a buttock lift for six, and a facelift and nose job would mean a minimum of ten years, or else leave your face in a jar by the door on the way out.

Curve appeal

Cosmetic surgery seems to be a running theme in South America at the moment. The biggest soap in Colombia at the moment is Sin Tetas No Hay Paraíso — “Without Breasts There Is No Paradise”. While a proposition curiously not covered in any key theological texts, it is a suggestion that seems to have some current pertinence. The heroine is a poor, flat-chested chick who gets a tit job, subsequently finds that big-breasted life is disillusioning, and kills herself. Presumably not by drowning, though.

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