British Sex

I was out in Soho last night, at Yalla Yalla, enjoying tasty food in ridiculously cramped conditions. (Giles Coren and Jay Rayner needn't fear competition from me.) Just up the road from the restaurant was an establishment that proudly declared itself a British Sex Shop, with a union jack and everything.

In the hour or so we spent outside waiting for our table, we had time to consider what this meant. It's not an appealing proposition, really, British sex not being famous for its skill or sophistication. Do they sell rushed experiences in pub car parks, with a guarantee of a slight feeling of disgust that will develop into a full-blown misogyny? Or perhaps they go for the nostalgia market, and you can buy dvds of a slender hand toying with the sugar bowl in a Lancashire railway station buffet. If so, I've got a slogan for them:  viagra for your upper lip.