Cortez amors

All the best news sources have covered the literally exciting news that HM Government is to expand and extend sex education so that it finally fills all the cracks in our edjucation system.

As ever, the sausage-fingered managers who staff the Labour Party opt for process over product. What do they hope to achieve by getting primary-school dwarves to draw Venn diagrams of ladies' intimate plumbing in non-toxic crayon?

"It will, somehow, reduce the level of teenage pregnancy," they wail, clinging to the Rugged Cross of Coincidence.

"Doubtful," I reply, "But what about the more important matter of giving the ladies a thoroughly good time? How can Play-Doh® models of Fallopian tubes help Mrs Benson next door blow her top like a narwhal slung from a siege engine?"

The earnest canvasser slunk away from our threshold, ushering her children before her.

As ever, the Cymru Rouge not only has a solution - it has the only solution. Both of them.

1. The United Kingdom, like many North European countries, has benefitted greatly from the discovery of penicillin and liberalisation of the divorce laws. These twin flumes of freedom have filled a fragrant reservoir with non-infectious women of a certain age.

These ladies reach the age of Keatsian ripeness with the realisation that their children have left home, their husbands are bacon-breathed drones, the house is worth a fortune and they themselves are still hot as a cage of minks on mezcal.

The divorce papers soon fly off the fax machine, then South Oxfordshire wine merchants, Open University summer schools and muscular curates brace themselves for the silken assault.

I had the pleasure of teaching Russian to a display of such ladies in the late 80s, and rejoiced in their smoky élan. Marxian principles dictate that these dimpled Deneuviennes should now devote some their ample skills and experience to the Common Weal by taming and training British youth.

If you were a blundering 18-year-old, what would you prefer - three chafing minutes with a pink-eyed classmate, or an afternoon of firm but patient tutoring in the ars amatoria by a gin-scented divorcee in a basque?

And when said youth moves on to his first proper girlfriend, she will be treated with the brio, charm, depravity and duration that she deserves on, or even elaborately suspended from, a Georgian four-poster bed in the Cotswolds - not jack-rabbited in a student dorm to the accompaniment of some "wrap" music. What better torch could one generation pass on to the next?

I propose a Council of Merry Widows to ensure that the young men of Britain are brought up to a consistently high standard of amatory prowess - the last thing we want is a postcoital postcode lottery whereby Shropshire lads will march on Llangollen because they heard Mrs Owen Edwards has a saddle strapped to her dresser. Again.

By the same measure, I would urge harnessing the thoroughbreds from Britain's rainbow stable of diversity - literally, in some cases - to this noble cause. The Kama Sutra, Thousand and One Nights, the Red Book of Hergest, Unaussprechlichen Kulten, Old Moore's Almanack, the Freemans Catalogue - there is so much to bring us all closer together, from Position XIX ("The Surprised Peacock") to Joan the Wad.

2. If, however, the Government insists on using visual aids to reduce teen pregnancies, I would suggest recourse to hardcore pornography. By which I mean American films with primo production values, waxed blondes and a funky soundtrack, not handheld barmaids in a Brummie bedsit.

A year hanging out at the Moscow Institute of Cinematography gave me an epicure's eye for glossy scud. The techniques, devices and choreographed deviance deployed in such flicks send sprays of seed in all imaginable directions but never hit anything that could remotely cause conception outside the pages of the Gospels.

Persuade our youngsters that this is what it's all about, and I'll be surprised if we don't have a procreation gap to rival that of Vatican City within a decade.

Mr Speaker, I commend these measures to The House.