Citrulline, a naturally produced chemical contained in watermelons, is believed to trigger the production of a compound that can help relax the body’s blood vessels. The effect is similar to what happens when a man takes Viagra.

When consumed in large quantities, citrulline, found in the flesh and the rind of a watermelon, reacts with the body’s enzymes and is changed into arginine, an amino acid that can improve the heart and the circulatory and immune systems.

Watermelon, although not “organ specific” as ED pills, can relax blood vessels and improve circulation without any drug side effects.

Citrulline’s effects on the body are also similar to aspirin. Something to remember when you’ve got a raging watermelon boner and your mate has a headache.

No, really.

My downstairs neighbour had his abusive boyfriend arrested Tuesday. Yesterday police escorted the crazy mofo (mother fucker, for those not wise to my New York slang) to his ex’s apartment to collect his belongings.

My neighbour came to my flat during this time and decided to take up smoking again. I, running low on smokes and milk for coffee, slipped out to buy provisions. During this time, the police, in all their wisdom, got bored and decided to leave!

Well, the crazy mofo spent the next several hours lurking in my hallways screaming how he was going to kill his boyfriend and anyone helping him.

So I decided to sit in a hot, humid park rather than risk life and limb. My milk curdled and I got a sunburn.

Looking at my milk and considering the reasons why I was sitting outside, was it any wonder I started to think of relationships turning sour?

I’m just slightly disgusted with our human condition. Why on earth do we get so bent out of shape when a relationship fizzles out? Why can’t we deal with it gracefully?

It’s a statistical fact that more than half of all marriages end. And God knows how many relationships that don’t include vows fail. Logically, the chances of a relationship lasting are pretty damn slim. So why do we convince ourselves that our relationships are different? And why do we act so surprised and hurt when we’re proved wrong?

Ok, I know I sound like the deepest, most bitter cynic - but I swear I’m not. I do think it’s possible for two people of similar temperaments, with similar interests and common goals to make a go of it and live “ happily ever after”. I just don’t think people honestly assess themselves or their mate in most cases. And that’s why break-ups happen.

I’ve been through numerous break-ups myself and I’ve realised one thing: the best thing to do when things end is to preserve as much of your dignity as possible.

Just consider this: although it might feel good to get hideously drunk and push the bitch your boyfriend is sleeping with down the stairs of CBGB’s and verbally emasculate the two-timing bastard in front of all his friends (not that I’m speaking from personal experience), you’ll feel dirty afterwards. Not to mention the fact that everyone will still tease you about it four years later.

Don’t do desperate or angry. Suck it up and act like an adult. If you’re the one ending things, do it as nicely and calmly as possible. If you’re the one getting ditched, wait until later to take your frustration out, or do what I do and forget about your frustration at the bar.

Above all things remember: the first impression might be the most important, but it’s the last impression that will haunt you.

The Queen will feel the tug at her sizable purse strings, as the Royal budget has been frozen.

The Department for Culture, Media and Sport, confirmed that the aid money for the maintenance of the palaces would remain at £15 million per annum for at least the next three years.

This isn’t the best news for the Royal family, as official accounts disclosed today that the cost of running the monarchy rose by 6.1 per cent last year to £40 million.

Essential repairs to Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle and other royal buildings will have to be delayed because the Queen can not raise the extra funding necessary.

The squeeze is proof positive the British economy is receding as quickly as Prince William’s hairline.

It has been said that the Queen has taken a personal interest in keeping costs down by enacting simple measures such as turning off lights at night.

The monarchy now costs each person in Britain the equivalent of 66p a year - up from 62p last year. Palace officials described the cost of the monarchy as less than the price of two pints of milk or a download for an MP3 player.

I’ve always had a problem with growing up. When my parents told me to appreciate being a carefree little kid, I took it to heart. I wanted nothing to do with responsibility. It was a dark day when I got my first pubic hair. I cried hysterically because I knew it was a harbinger of age. I plucked that vile thing out.

In some ways I’ve grown up since then (I’m a good worker, I pay taxes, I stopped picking my nose); in other ways I’m resolutely childish. My Peter Pan syndrome is most apparent in the way I approach relationships.

So you know the full story: I’ve been in two long-term, loving, committed relationships (well, committed on my part). They failed to last because of our basic incompatibility. No one’s fault really (except theirs).

That said, although I can play by the rules of monogamy, I’m a bit hard to tag down. I’ve always had a short attention span. When I do start to see someone, I’m not the first to bring up the icky issue of commitment.

In the short time I’d known The Lad things had escalated rapidly. A vague, “let’s keep in touch,” turned into a date. A date turned into a two-night sleepover. And text flirting became full-fledged, “how’s your day going?” phone calls.

I wasn’t stressing the fast-track intimacy; we happily agreed that we were just having a bit of fun together, no pressure. Besides, I was going home to New York for the summer. Things couldn’t get serious.

I was content with our arrangement, but I sensed The Lad felt there was room for negotiation. He talked of hanging out together when I came back to London. He wasn’t going to stick me in that corner! So, I pussyfooted around the topic with a diplomatic, “that sounds nice”. It’d be foolish to confirm or deny a future so soon. 

His seeming change in attitude reaffirmed my conviction that “fuck-buddies” are a fairy tale. It’s silly to believe that two people can agree: “Let’s meet repeatedly for commitment-free, mutually convenient shagging. ”  Because, one person in that partnership will always hope it will evolve into something more.

I nervously realised we weren’t “just shagging” when The Lad gamely agreed to meet my brother, my friends and I at a pub. Generally, the introduction to family and friends is considered a step towards relationship recognition. Did we want that? 

Things went smoothly. The Lad and my brother got along like crack and a whore. My friends approved. And I was enjoying myself, until the label “boyfriend” was used. “He’s not my boyfriend,” I denied a bit too quickly.

Many drinks later, I nipped to the shop for some crisps. Coming back, I didn’t look both ways when I crossed the street and I had to run out of a cab’s way. I slipped and skinned my knee. My brother and The Lad saw everything. 

As I hobbled over, my brother laughed and teased, “you lush”. I stuck my tongue at him. The Lad disappeared. “Where’d he go?” I pouted. He returned shortly with a cold glass of ice water. “For your knee,” he said.

I was touched. Fuck-buddies weren’t real but I realised I didn’t care. Because, for a moment, I saw a knight in shining armour .

-Then I punched my brother, who was still teasing me, and forgot all about it.

It was revealed today that the Government has failed to reduce the levels of potentially lethal air pollution. A group of MP’s say the pollution levels in areas of central London exceed EU recommendations by 100 per cent.

10 areas including King’s Cross, Holborn, Bloomsbury and the West End were cited as having the highest levels of pollution. Another 63 areas exceeded the recommended limits by up to 25 per cent.

The report, issued by the Commons transport committee, found that that targets for nitrogen dioxide, sulphur dioxide and particulates (PM10s) were missed; in some cases, levels were actually rising.

It further added that the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs was failing to meet air quality targets, particularly in London.

It is believed that high pollution levels have contributed significantly to an increase in respiratory disorders. PM10’s alone are thought to be the cause of an additional 8,100 deaths and 10,500 additional hospital admissions each year.

The report may assist Boris Johnson in his call to put a kibosh on the planned increase of low-level flights over London, and bolster support for his Heathrow on Thames estuary proposal.

I have a few reasons for being “picky”. I was raised Catholic and was taught God has neurotic sex issues. He would smite me for having premarital sex. I don’t think that’s true (but I don’t sleep around, just in case). There’s also the lingering, immature, misogynist concern of racking up numbers. And finally my own personal guideline of: “If I sleep with a guy, I’ll be doomed to remember him forever, so I better-fucking-well put him through a screening process.”

Then I met The Lad. He was sexy, funny, and oh-so British. I was gagging for it and ditched my rules.

It’s always a bit tricky the first time you sleep with someone. The Lad wasn’t an exception. I expected the polite British reserve to fall away when we stepped in the bedroom. I did not expect to be on top of him, mostly naked with one hand down his pants and the other grabbing for a condom, and hear him ask sincerely: “Do you want to have sex?” I feared this wouldn’t bode well for me - polite doesn’t work well in bed. But I shook my head and proceeded.

Thank Christ my fears were unfounded.

I woke up at eight the next morning with a jolt. My phone was ringing and flashing “home”. Panic caused my heart to stop. “Shit! God is smiting me,” I thought. “The first time I have a guy lying naked next to me in ages and my mom’s calling. How does she always know?” I rationalised: “She doesn’t know. It’s three in the morning her time, who died?” I answered, silently praying to God: “I know I’m a bad girl, but PLEASE don’t let The Lad make a noise.”

God spared my rotten soul: no one died, The Lad was silent, and I got a pleasant surprise. My brother was calling to announce he was coming in three days for a visit.

Disaster averted, I forgot my promises to God of reforming my wicked ways, and used the adrenaline rush to properly wake The Lad.

Later, I tried to impress him with American pancakes. But sex made me forget I can’t cook and I somehow managed to screw-up premixed batter. The Lad smiled, as if to prove he didn’t lose any teeth chewing on the rubber I served him, and said breakfast was lovely.

The Lad disappeared as I commenced the clean up. “Typical,” I thought. When I found him, he was looking at my toilet. “Was breakfast that bad?” I asked. “No,” he said. ‘ I was just trying to figure out if I could fix your toilet seat. It’s loose. Do you have a drill?”

My heart stopped a second time that day. He was going to fix stuff for me. I could have died and gone to heaven right there (although I knew I was in for an argument with St. Peter at the gate).

I felt quite smug: I screwed my fantasy, sexy Brit and he was screwing stuff in place for me. Better still, I could now laugh at my friend who thought it didn’t pay to be “picky”.

(In your face TH!)

Patrons of Ascot’s Royal Enclosure, an exclusive invitation-only event, have been appalled by the amount of bare flesh on display in recent years.

This year, those who don’t adhere to the code will be asked to leave on the orders of Her Majesty’s representative, the Duke of Devonshire.

Course chiefs have spelled out how to dress. They have even issued warnings about under-wear. Women must wear “knickers”, adding: “But not on show, please ladies!” Oompa Loompa fake tans are “a total fashion faux pas and there’s no excuse”. The “anti-chav” dress code has been posted to each attendee and is available on the Ascot website.

Londoners advice is to ask yourself: ‘What would Lindsey Lohan wear?’, and then do the opposite.

The urge to turn my room into a love-den may have made more sense to me if I had someone I was trying to impress. But I justified the effort by telling myself a guy wouldn’t appreciate my romantic, comfy room as much as I would anyway. To hell with man-pleasing, I was making my space nice for me.

But my offering must have pleased the sex gods, because The Lad texted me.

To explain: I met The Lad at a party, went home with him and had an amazing night (although we didn’t “sleep” together). He asked me for my number when we parted ways, but he followed up his request by telling me he was, “very busy”. Needless to say, I never expected to hear from him again.

Two days later, he sent me a text. We exchanged witty, amusing, laugh-out-loud texts for the next seven hours. I apologized for leaving love bites, which his friends teased him for, and he responded: “bite me, scratch me, scar me, but never, ever pee on me. I hope that clarifies my stance on such behaviour.” He was amusing and laid back; and I was totally smitten.

On day four of the text-flirting, he asked me out for a drink. He suggested we meet at a pub of my choice, in my area.

I panicked. I knew what drinking with him in my area would lead to and I needed to get “boy-ready”.

It’s my secret fear that a guy will assume that a girl with a dirty flat, is dirty in general (and not in a good way).  If that’s true, the state of the common areas of my flat gauranteed I wouldn’t get lucky. My fantastic flatmates helped me to clean the house until the surfaces sparkled.

I then had to go “boy-shopping”. In case he came over I needed my place stocked with boy essentials: pizza, crisps, alcohol, mixers, paper towels and…rubber goods, which were to be left in the bathroom. I didn’t want him thinking I had pre-planned anything. Besides, it was only our first date and I’m not that type of girl (I know you’re laughing-stop it).

I ripped every errant hair from my body, showered, dressed in my cutest, “ boy-understandable” (i.e. nothing too fashion forward, which confuses men) mini-dress and boots outfit, and left to meet him.

Again, the sex gods smiled upon me, because The Lad suggested after our first drink: “it’s too noisy here. Could we go back to yours and talk?”

We got to my place, drank, talked, and ate crisps until we eventually, wandered into my room. The Lad must have appreciated my romantic, comfy, shrine to the gods of summertime loving-because he stayed there for the next two days.

I met the reason for my recent brain failure at a party a few weeks ago. I was wandering, semi-lost, in Brixton with a friend, looking for a house party, when I noticed him.

I don’t know what stood-out to me first: his tall, angular good looks, or the fact he was carrying a bottle of wine and looked like he knew where he was going. Somehow I felt I recognised him. (That’s the Oxytocin speaking again-that retrospective, “I don’t know how, but I knew he was special” tripe.) I had a feeling he was going to the same party.

My friend and I followed him to the party. We found our friend, the birthday girl inside, fixed ourselves a drink and were settling in for a nice chin-wag when the guy came over and introduced himself. Within 10 minutes The Lad had me laughing so hard I choked on my drink-twice.

Claiming foot fatigue, we heel-clad women left The Lad and tottered to a blanket in the yard. He joined us a bit later. I had a feeling he was interested, but I still couldn’t tell. After eight months of unsuccessfully interpreting British men’s vague flirting signals, I was cautious.

But all credit to The Lad. He was undeterred by my evasiveness. He kept finding me and stopping me to chat. He touched my arm to get my attention, called me “love”, and was seemingly always there to light my cigarette.

The Lad and I became involved in one of the deeper conversations I had since I moved to London. And then he kissed me.

Later, I was supposed to leave with friends but he invited me to his flat nearby. To my surprise I accepted. I never go home with strange men. Especially after I tell them not to expect anything.

The next 12 or so hours were bliss (yes, I said bliss-bloody Oxytocin). We spent as much time talking as we did fooling around. He proved to be intelligent, oddly funny, deliciously liberated (i.e. kinky) and completely respectful. It was one of those nights you enjoyed so much you knew it couldn’t be repeated.

As he walked me to my bus the next evening, I mentally prepared myself not to be disappointed if he didn’t ask for my number. 

 He surprised me and said: “We should keep in contact. But I’m really not very good at relationships.” To which I smirked and said, “So, you’re telling me: You’re a guy,” while thinking inwardly, “Ok, he wants to be fuck-buddies. I can do that.” Then he said: “And you’re too beautiful and too intelligent to be fuck-buddies with.”

I turned my head from him as I made my surprised “O-Face,” composed myself quickly and covered my disappointment by saying in a bemused tone: “So, you’re telling me: Don’t expect to hear from you.” I smiled. We exchanged numbers. I kissed him goodbye. And watched him leave.

My cynical mind comforted me the way home. I appreciated the night for what it was: A wonderful one-off with a British man, something I thought would never happen.

A day later The Lad texted me. And my mind has been an Oxytocin-laden-lump of rubbish since. But, damn me-if it isn’t delightful.

Attendees of “London Underground’s Last-Ever Party” are encouraged to dress up in their finest threads for this “high-glamour, weird-ass shindig”. Revellers are meeting up on the second-to-last carriage clockwise on the Circle Line, starting with the first train after 9 pm to arrive at Liverpool Street.

The booze-ban, part of Boris Johnson’s fascist crackdown on anti-social behaviour, will go into effect on Sunday. Anyone caught quaffing alcohol on buses, the Underground, or the DLR may be kicked off.

Mr. Johnson claims that nobody likes to see ‘people swigging from a bottle”. This maybe true in the case where sober people are made to feel envious, because they don’t have a bottle of their own to swig from. Mr. Johnson’s ban will be “ making everyone’s journey more pleasant” by ensuring that all commuters will now be sober, miserable bastards.