I couldn't give a flying fox.

I am not entirely comfortable in the composition of this article; in order to construct it I may have overstepped one of my many strict moral boundaries.

Allow me to explain.

I tend to extract my knowledge of current affairs from upright and, as far as one can judge, reliable websites. (Of course I am privy to the workings of state, as many world leaders rely upon my counsel and wisdom, but it would be indiscrete to detail all of that here). I skip merrily through the BBC’s offerings, have a quick skim through the news service offered by Yahoo, an occasional peruse of the offerings of the Grauniad and the Indescribablyboring generally suffices, not to mention, of course, the Torygraph.

“Why do you read the Torygraph?” I hear you enquire. Well, you know where you stand with them, don’t you? Stand being very much the operative verb, as they have not moved since 1837. This week they had cause to mention Mr Bob Dylan. They explained that he was a singer and songwriter famous for “Mr Tambourine Man” and other popular ditties. I have visions of retired Brigadiers from Bishop’s Tippings, having been informed of this, dashing off to the local HMV to buy the latest cylinder, and afterwards skipping gaily down the local avenues, their senses having been stripped.

I am aware of other news sources on the electric internet, but only refer to them when someone has advised me that Dave has featured again.

I do not follow the cavorting of celebrities. I am not an expert on the adventures of Amy or the peregrinations of Paris. I would not recognise Jordan (or know if that is the correct spelling) even were she to bash me on the head with her left boob.

I am, in short, the model of decorum.

So, when I saw an article on the website of the BBC about the sex life of the flying fox, my first instinct was to ignore it. I am not interested in the fornicatory frolics of the genus Pteropus, and suspect that this healthy attitude is reciprocated. They avoid me, and I respect their privacy also. Without being too explicit, I have never, as far as my memory allows, been the victim of a peeping tom in the form of a winged mammal hanging from the ceiling whilst going about what passes for a sex life in my corner of the universe. (Unless you count Virginia Bottomley dressed in flying goggles and a Qantas flight attendant’s shirt, tied up with spaghetti on top of my wardrobe, but that could happen to anyone.)

So, dear reader, please believe me when I say that the only thing that led me to read this article was the mention of scientists “unlocking the secrets of the flying fox’s sexual success”. What a bunch of nosy bleeders. One minute they can’t make up their minds about the existence of “dark energy”, the next, instead of coming up with some form of energy that will be non-polluting, cure cancer and kill Thatcher, they are probing around the boudoir of a bloody bat. In fact, as usual, they have discovered bugger all. There is a link, apparently, between high testosterone and sexual achievement, but they have not a clue whether this is of any significance or causal. Twats. To be blunt, I could have told them that it is a fair bet that Usain Bolt is more likely to have offspring than is Russell Grant, and I could have deduced that without interrupting the vinegar strokes of some endangered antipodean guava guzzler.

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Points will be deducted for comments containing puns about “bats”.