I say! I say! I say!
What's got three legs and a ***t?
A drummer's stool!
Ba
Dum
T..
Tish.*
If
I had my time in bands again, I'd be a drummer. They're the butt of
all the band jokes but also the mainstay of the music. And to be fair,
they're only the butt of the jokes because it's a waste of time taking
the piss out of the bass player as he won't understand and if you take
the piss out of the singer, he'll just throw a hissy fit and flounce
out.
When I was a kid, I wanted to play the big bass
drum in a marching band? Who didn't? Then I wanted to be a drummer boy
with a snare drum. And then I forgot all about drumming while my
parents put me through learning the recorder (didn't learn much), piano
(learned less) and violin (learned nothing except that standing up
throughout the violin lesson made me fart a lot).
In
adulthood, I took up the saxophone - the ultimate 80s affectation - and
single-handedly made it slightly less cool. I became moderately
competent at it but my heart was never in it. I should have been the
drummer.
I say! I say! I say! How do you know when a drummer is knocking on your door?
He knocks too loudly and then comes in before you're ready.*
No.
Scratch that. I should have been the singer. The rise in shows like X
Factor, Britain's Got Talent etc. are simply because everyone wants to
be a singer. But why?
Here's why. Because being a
singer is piss-easy. The singer has no work to do beyond hold a
microphone without drooling into it. The singer can be 'difficult' and
is loved because of it. The singer can be tuneless and toothless and is
still loved. The singer can behave as badly as they can and are
applauded for their showmanship. The singer can be a **** and the
public lap it up.
The life of a successful singer is
pretty much a case of lounging
around being a **** while people queue up to give you cash and
blow-jobs. Who wouldn't sign up for that? I should have been a
singer...
I say! I say! I say! What do you call a
crass, self-regarding, vainglorious, egotistical, tuneless, tone-deaf,
insensitive and very, very spawny fuck-wad who hangs round with
musicians?
*Thanks to the internet for the drummer jokes.
Saturday, 7 January 2017
Wednesday, 4 January 2017
Eleven Pipers Piping
Not sure about the wisdom of doing a drugs confessional. But as the
last time I touched any form of illicit drug was over 10 years ago, I
think I'm safe from having the drug squad beating down the door.
When we first moved to Southsea, the house across the road was a bona fide crack house; run by a slum landlord who allegedly kept a stable of crack whores there. Seemed unlikely - the only times we saw any of the resident was when they were being arrested - a regular occurrence - and they were always prematurely-aged men with jaundice, no teeth and the staggers. Possibly they were specialist 'glory-hole' crack whores.
They weren't great neighbours. One of the first faculties that drug users lose is the ability to use doorbells. Instead, they have to stand in the street and shout to attract the attention of those in the house. Or maybe the doorbell didn't work.
One morning, we were woken by a loud crash - the drug squad had broken down the door and arrested everyone. That seemed to confirm that the doorbell didn't work. The house is now pricey apartments.
My personal drug history is nowhere near as exciting. A teenage foray into solvent abuse was more fun than it should have been but was small beer compared to working with industrial solvents at a printers for a couple of years. A couple of years almost permanently high and no doubt some serious long-term damage to my system. Either way, glue isn't really a proper grown-up drug like cannibis is. Glue doesn't count.
Everyone remembers their first joint - unless it was exceptionally good gear. Mine was in Tetbury Rec., in the earthworks left behind after one of the failed skatepark initiatives that happened every few years from the 70s until a few years ago when they finally built one. I remember the earthworks but I have no recollection of what the joint was like - probably sheep poo. Didn't stop me inhaling of course. I don't remember any effect except for even more paranoia than I already had. Great..
I went to Stroud for a year to re-fail my A levels. Stroud was drugs central. The 60s and 70s hippies had moved in en masse and pioneered home-grown on the south-facing slopes. The place was supposed to be awash with drugs. It wasn't. Well... I couldn't get any. I did get a mullet and a girlfriend though, so it wasn't a wasted year, in any sense of the word.
The circle of friends I had at the time, decided that drugs were uncool and so took up with Amyl Nitrate (poppers). For the uninitiated, Amyl Nitrate causes your brain to grow at the same time as making your skull shrink. Like an ice-cream headache with the 'bonus' of an allegedly relaxed sphincter. Never wanted to put the sphincter thing to the test but inhaling a few lungfuls of Amyl Nitrate did give a pleasant rush while reality wandered off and minded it's own business for a minute or so before returning, hand-in-hand with a splitting headache.
Amyl Nitrate hurts but it was legal. You had to buy it from sex shops. It came in small bottles that the guy in the sex shop would always stack and roll when wrapping so that you left the shop with a dildo-shaped package.
Illicit drugs passed me from time to time but none stuck.
I tried hot-knifing but found it was like having your tonsils microwaved. My housemate was more into it and our cutlery drawer looked like a blacksmiths forge.
I tried a line of speed before going night-clubbing in Yate. Alternative night at Spoirals Nite Spot. All that happened was that I was able to drink 8 pints of lager whilst remaining stone cold sober. The cold, concrete bleakness of Yate town centre in the 80s should never be seen sober - let alone when speeding and over-aware of every shitty, dystopian 1960s concrete 'statement'.
I tried cocaine but all that happened was that for the first time in my life, both of my nostrils were working at 100%. I'd never had so much oxygen in my system but apart from being able to breathe, the effects were underwhelming.
When I was backpacking in Australia, I discovered grass, which was a very pleasant interlude. I worked on a grape farm and persuaded the farmers 22-year-old son that if he randomly planted one or two grass plant on each row of grapes, it wouldn't show up as a plantation to the spotter planes that used to try to spot grass enterprises. If his plants had been found, he'd have been able to blame the random plants on the itinerant grape pickers. I calculated that he'd be able to grow around 300 plants without detection.
He was the only son - the golden child; set to the inherit the farm and spoiled rotten by his doting parents. We got in contact recently on Facebook and I find that he's now a 50-year-old burger flipper. Perhaps I shouldn't have introduced him to industrial scale grass production...
When I returned home in 1989, the early versions of shuper shkunk were doing the rounds and I found these to be far too hardcore for me.
The first time I tried shuper shkunk, I was sick out of the window of a girl's car. Vomit was all down the side of the car - like Go Faster stripes made out of chewed noodles. She wasn't impressed and the evening ended with her parked outside my parents house while I washed her car - much to the amusement of her, my mates and my dad, who all stood round laughing at me and pointing out the bits I'd missed.
The next time I tried it was years later at a stag night in Gloucestershire. We were playing drinking games when the booze was replaced with joints. I was on the point of leaving - not out of protest but because I was hammered. As I was leaving, I met a mate on the way in. He's an immense Samoan and had been out clubbing in the local bikers club. Bikers don't get to meet many Samoans and so everyone wanted to dance with him. They all loved him and gave him a leaving gift of some shuper-shuper Shuper Shkunk.
He offered me a toke and I took it deep.
All the bones left my body. My skeleton wandered off home and left the jelly bits behind. I curled up on the doormat and tried to sleep. Unfortunately, my bowels had woken up. I navigated my way to the loo by following the skirting board - crawling along with a steadying hand on the skirting board to stop me falling off the floor. When I came to a doorway, I plucked up my courage and made the big leap across to the other side - like Evel Knievel rocketing across a canyon only without the rockets. Although my bowels were moving fast and so the rocket propulsion was only seconds away.
I made it to the loo and after a pleasant (for me) respite, I needed to sleep. I crawled along the skirting until I found a bed and crashed into it. While I was unconscious, the staggee passed out and was carried to the same bed. He was stripped naked and slathered with toothpaste on his plums. Apparently it dries out and forms a crust that has to be chiseled off...
According to my 'mates', as both of us were passed out, it was good sport to pose us and take photos. I'm not sure exactly what happened but it is safe to say that it was the night that 'tea-bagging' was invented and that the Farelly brothers (film director friends of the groom) got the hair idea for 'There's Something About Mary' (They couldn't work toothpaste into the plot and so had to resort to masturbation - but haven't we all?)
Luckily, this was in 1994 and so there was no Facebook or other eternal repositories of shame. In fact, the technology was so primitive that the photographer ran the same film through the camera twice, thereby ruining all the photos and letting myself and the staggee off the hook big time.
I've been clean ever since.
When we first moved to Southsea, the house across the road was a bona fide crack house; run by a slum landlord who allegedly kept a stable of crack whores there. Seemed unlikely - the only times we saw any of the resident was when they were being arrested - a regular occurrence - and they were always prematurely-aged men with jaundice, no teeth and the staggers. Possibly they were specialist 'glory-hole' crack whores.
They weren't great neighbours. One of the first faculties that drug users lose is the ability to use doorbells. Instead, they have to stand in the street and shout to attract the attention of those in the house. Or maybe the doorbell didn't work.
One morning, we were woken by a loud crash - the drug squad had broken down the door and arrested everyone. That seemed to confirm that the doorbell didn't work. The house is now pricey apartments.
My personal drug history is nowhere near as exciting. A teenage foray into solvent abuse was more fun than it should have been but was small beer compared to working with industrial solvents at a printers for a couple of years. A couple of years almost permanently high and no doubt some serious long-term damage to my system. Either way, glue isn't really a proper grown-up drug like cannibis is. Glue doesn't count.
Everyone remembers their first joint - unless it was exceptionally good gear. Mine was in Tetbury Rec., in the earthworks left behind after one of the failed skatepark initiatives that happened every few years from the 70s until a few years ago when they finally built one. I remember the earthworks but I have no recollection of what the joint was like - probably sheep poo. Didn't stop me inhaling of course. I don't remember any effect except for even more paranoia than I already had. Great..
I went to Stroud for a year to re-fail my A levels. Stroud was drugs central. The 60s and 70s hippies had moved in en masse and pioneered home-grown on the south-facing slopes. The place was supposed to be awash with drugs. It wasn't. Well... I couldn't get any. I did get a mullet and a girlfriend though, so it wasn't a wasted year, in any sense of the word.
The circle of friends I had at the time, decided that drugs were uncool and so took up with Amyl Nitrate (poppers). For the uninitiated, Amyl Nitrate causes your brain to grow at the same time as making your skull shrink. Like an ice-cream headache with the 'bonus' of an allegedly relaxed sphincter. Never wanted to put the sphincter thing to the test but inhaling a few lungfuls of Amyl Nitrate did give a pleasant rush while reality wandered off and minded it's own business for a minute or so before returning, hand-in-hand with a splitting headache.
Amyl Nitrate hurts but it was legal. You had to buy it from sex shops. It came in small bottles that the guy in the sex shop would always stack and roll when wrapping so that you left the shop with a dildo-shaped package.
Illicit drugs passed me from time to time but none stuck.
I tried hot-knifing but found it was like having your tonsils microwaved. My housemate was more into it and our cutlery drawer looked like a blacksmiths forge.
I tried a line of speed before going night-clubbing in Yate. Alternative night at Spoirals Nite Spot. All that happened was that I was able to drink 8 pints of lager whilst remaining stone cold sober. The cold, concrete bleakness of Yate town centre in the 80s should never be seen sober - let alone when speeding and over-aware of every shitty, dystopian 1960s concrete 'statement'.
I tried cocaine but all that happened was that for the first time in my life, both of my nostrils were working at 100%. I'd never had so much oxygen in my system but apart from being able to breathe, the effects were underwhelming.
When I was backpacking in Australia, I discovered grass, which was a very pleasant interlude. I worked on a grape farm and persuaded the farmers 22-year-old son that if he randomly planted one or two grass plant on each row of grapes, it wouldn't show up as a plantation to the spotter planes that used to try to spot grass enterprises. If his plants had been found, he'd have been able to blame the random plants on the itinerant grape pickers. I calculated that he'd be able to grow around 300 plants without detection.
He was the only son - the golden child; set to the inherit the farm and spoiled rotten by his doting parents. We got in contact recently on Facebook and I find that he's now a 50-year-old burger flipper. Perhaps I shouldn't have introduced him to industrial scale grass production...
When I returned home in 1989, the early versions of shuper shkunk were doing the rounds and I found these to be far too hardcore for me.
The first time I tried shuper shkunk, I was sick out of the window of a girl's car. Vomit was all down the side of the car - like Go Faster stripes made out of chewed noodles. She wasn't impressed and the evening ended with her parked outside my parents house while I washed her car - much to the amusement of her, my mates and my dad, who all stood round laughing at me and pointing out the bits I'd missed.
The next time I tried it was years later at a stag night in Gloucestershire. We were playing drinking games when the booze was replaced with joints. I was on the point of leaving - not out of protest but because I was hammered. As I was leaving, I met a mate on the way in. He's an immense Samoan and had been out clubbing in the local bikers club. Bikers don't get to meet many Samoans and so everyone wanted to dance with him. They all loved him and gave him a leaving gift of some shuper-shuper Shuper Shkunk.
He offered me a toke and I took it deep.
All the bones left my body. My skeleton wandered off home and left the jelly bits behind. I curled up on the doormat and tried to sleep. Unfortunately, my bowels had woken up. I navigated my way to the loo by following the skirting board - crawling along with a steadying hand on the skirting board to stop me falling off the floor. When I came to a doorway, I plucked up my courage and made the big leap across to the other side - like Evel Knievel rocketing across a canyon only without the rockets. Although my bowels were moving fast and so the rocket propulsion was only seconds away.
I made it to the loo and after a pleasant (for me) respite, I needed to sleep. I crawled along the skirting until I found a bed and crashed into it. While I was unconscious, the staggee passed out and was carried to the same bed. He was stripped naked and slathered with toothpaste on his plums. Apparently it dries out and forms a crust that has to be chiseled off...
According to my 'mates', as both of us were passed out, it was good sport to pose us and take photos. I'm not sure exactly what happened but it is safe to say that it was the night that 'tea-bagging' was invented and that the Farelly brothers (film director friends of the groom) got the hair idea for 'There's Something About Mary' (They couldn't work toothpaste into the plot and so had to resort to masturbation - but haven't we all?)
Luckily, this was in 1994 and so there was no Facebook or other eternal repositories of shame. In fact, the technology was so primitive that the photographer ran the same film through the camera twice, thereby ruining all the photos and letting myself and the staggee off the hook big time.
I've been clean ever since.
Tuesday, 3 January 2017
Ten Lords A-Leaping
I grew up in a small town in rural Gloucestershire. We had royalty all around - Prince Charles, Princess Diana, Prince William, Prince Harry, Princess Anne, Prince Michael of Kent - they all lived a few miles away. Eat your heart out, Downton Abbey.
Prince Charles & Diana and the boys were very nearby and were frequently seen in the local shops; buying Special Brew, fags and porn mags. Not really - that was Prince Philip.
Many of the shops had the three feathers badge, which is granted to anyone who supplies goods to the Prince of Wales for three years. My mum used to give frog spawn to the one of the security policeman so that he could pass it on to the Prince for stocking the dew ponds being restored on the Highgrove estate. She could have qualified for the three feathers but it was all a bit too showy.
The frogs & toads in our garden pond had been gathered by my dad over several years. Wandering back, half-cut, from the pub, late on a rainy evenings, he would sometime see toads or frogs in the street. He'd pick them up, pop them in his pocket and then release them in the back garden. One evening, he forgot about a 'rescued' toad and screamed like a girl the next morning when he put his hand in his coat pocket and found a cold, clammy and rather wriggly toad.
Amphibian gathering in this way was out of the question for Prince Charles. When he was hammered on cider, he'd just stumble into the Aston and hurtle back home. Not really - that was Prince Harry.
As well as the royals, we had more than our fair share of aristocrats. Some of these were proper old money - scruffy as tramps and giving every impression of not having a monogrammed pot to piss into.
After the aristos, we had the upper-upper middle class - farmers, racehorse trainers, polo-players and the like.
What bound them all was horse-riding - chasing foxes around, mostly. Terrifying activity.
Who wants a massive lump of leather-clad meat between their legs? But enough of my S&M chat-up lines. What is the appeal of horse riding?
Come to that, what is the appeal of fox hunting? In the old days, maybe, when foxes were lean and fast and could run for miles. Nowadays, foxes live off dropped takeaways and so are too fat and unfit to put up much of a run. One might as well hunt Jeremy Kyle guests. Expect to see that one being proposed by Ian Duncan Smith and a lucrative contract given to ATOS to identify unemployed people to be hunted down by dogs.
I've never wanted to try fox hunting but I did try horse riding. I now know what 'saddle sore' is - riding a horse is like having my bollocks used as a pair of hairy kettle-drums. The horse didn't want me there and kept trying to throw me. I was gripping so hard that my thighs were agony for three days afterwards and I was walking like I'd been hoovering naked and slipped backwards onto a partially-greased fire extinguisher.
What I needed to keep me on the saddle was a prehensile cock that could grip the saddle. Or, failing that, *really* sticky bollocks that I could anchor myself with. However, it's too late for that now - they're so middle-aged and saggy, I could fall of the horse, be dragged behind and yet still be anchored to the saddle. As mentioned elsewhere, one of the 'benefits' of shaven bollocks is that they are really sticky - saggy old ball bags make a very effective fly-paper substitute should you ever have the need - attractive (to flies) and lethally sticky. But as saddles-grippers, they're useless.
I'll leave horse-riding to the leaping lords. They wear jodphurs from an early age so as to keep their ball bag from stretching. There can be no other possible reason for a man to wear them.
Prince Charles & Diana and the boys were very nearby and were frequently seen in the local shops; buying Special Brew, fags and porn mags. Not really - that was Prince Philip.
Many of the shops had the three feathers badge, which is granted to anyone who supplies goods to the Prince of Wales for three years. My mum used to give frog spawn to the one of the security policeman so that he could pass it on to the Prince for stocking the dew ponds being restored on the Highgrove estate. She could have qualified for the three feathers but it was all a bit too showy.
The frogs & toads in our garden pond had been gathered by my dad over several years. Wandering back, half-cut, from the pub, late on a rainy evenings, he would sometime see toads or frogs in the street. He'd pick them up, pop them in his pocket and then release them in the back garden. One evening, he forgot about a 'rescued' toad and screamed like a girl the next morning when he put his hand in his coat pocket and found a cold, clammy and rather wriggly toad.
Amphibian gathering in this way was out of the question for Prince Charles. When he was hammered on cider, he'd just stumble into the Aston and hurtle back home. Not really - that was Prince Harry.
As well as the royals, we had more than our fair share of aristocrats. Some of these were proper old money - scruffy as tramps and giving every impression of not having a monogrammed pot to piss into.
After the aristos, we had the upper-upper middle class - farmers, racehorse trainers, polo-players and the like.
What bound them all was horse-riding - chasing foxes around, mostly. Terrifying activity.
Who wants a massive lump of leather-clad meat between their legs? But enough of my S&M chat-up lines. What is the appeal of horse riding?
Come to that, what is the appeal of fox hunting? In the old days, maybe, when foxes were lean and fast and could run for miles. Nowadays, foxes live off dropped takeaways and so are too fat and unfit to put up much of a run. One might as well hunt Jeremy Kyle guests. Expect to see that one being proposed by Ian Duncan Smith and a lucrative contract given to ATOS to identify unemployed people to be hunted down by dogs.
I've never wanted to try fox hunting but I did try horse riding. I now know what 'saddle sore' is - riding a horse is like having my bollocks used as a pair of hairy kettle-drums. The horse didn't want me there and kept trying to throw me. I was gripping so hard that my thighs were agony for three days afterwards and I was walking like I'd been hoovering naked and slipped backwards onto a partially-greased fire extinguisher.
What I needed to keep me on the saddle was a prehensile cock that could grip the saddle. Or, failing that, *really* sticky bollocks that I could anchor myself with. However, it's too late for that now - they're so middle-aged and saggy, I could fall of the horse, be dragged behind and yet still be anchored to the saddle. As mentioned elsewhere, one of the 'benefits' of shaven bollocks is that they are really sticky - saggy old ball bags make a very effective fly-paper substitute should you ever have the need - attractive (to flies) and lethally sticky. But as saddles-grippers, they're useless.
I'll leave horse-riding to the leaping lords. They wear jodphurs from an early age so as to keep their ball bag from stretching. There can be no other possible reason for a man to wear them.
Monday, 2 January 2017
Nine Ladies Dancing
Many years ago, I went to Stringfellows 'Gentlemens Club'.
Everything - but everything - was in leopard skin print. It was dark,
damp and full of bored-looking semi-naked women. It was like being
trapped inside Peter Stringfellow's G-string.
I'm neither qualified nor bothered to discuss the merits or otherwise of lappies. If they'd been around when I was a young man, I'd have been keen to go but also too scared and skint to actually go. Now that I'm older, I have no need to go as I have a great pair of moobs of my own to play with - big enough to play with but small enough to hide - that's the secret!
The same cannot be said for dancing. Although I rarely get the chance, I still love to throw some shapes on the floor. Pretty shit shapes, mind - I look like Peter Crouch repeatedly fucking-up the robot dance. If the music is tolerable, then I do like to frug, even if my dancing is pretty shitty, despite over 30 years of practice.
In the early 1980s, there were school discos. These were my only exposure to pop music. We had no pop music in the house. Top of the Pops was only watched with the sound turned down and then only so my dad could perve over Pans People. I was too scared to go to the Youth Club as it was the haunt of the school year above me, who were nearly all violent psychopaths. All in all, I knew nothing about music and less about dancing. Thank goodness for Madness, who pioneered the bloke dance.(I was too young for punk & the Pogo). Little more than exaggerated jogging on the spot while leaning backwards and then forwards, it just worked. I can still do it now although now I look like a middle-aged bloke having a heart attack while jogging. Which is about right.
In the mid 1980s it was the Tetbury Leisure Centre Disco. Ah... The Lezsh, with its chained-up fire escapes and lax drinking-age policy. Kestrel Lager (It bites!) and vomity experiments in alcohol tolerance. I was getting into more alternative music and so wouldn't dance to the dreadful sub-Soul Boy stuff that was so popular in the 80s. Us 'trendy wankers' had a short slot towards the end of the evening - after Wham! but before the smoochy numbers. We had a few minutes to hurl ourselves round to the Redskins or the Cure. But all too soon, the trendy music stopped and the smoochy stuff started.
God, I hated the smoochy stuff. I was not, by any measure, much of a catch back then and so I wasn't in the running for a smooch. I still get a sinking feeling when I hear "I'm not in love." A waste of good dancing time, spent instead on letting teenagers grope and drool in time to fucking awful music. Loves young dream loses its splendour when the soundtrack is provided by Lionel 'fucking awful' Richie.
A bigger dread than the smoochy stuff is that stable of shitty wedding DJs - "It's Raining Men!". There is a rule amongst all DJs that as soon as men have been dragged onto the dance floor - shy, awkward and nervous - they should be scared back to where they came from by a loud blast on "It's Raining Men!". The implicit message is that if you stay on the dance floor, you're gay. The actual message though, is that the DJ is a ****.
From the mid-1980s onwards, I have 'perfected' a dance style that has stood me in reasonable stead. I'll let you in on the secret. Simply move with the rhythm. That's all. Couldn't be easier, could it? Sadly, it does seem to be too hard for many. Next time you're dancing - look and see how many simply can't get their bodies to move with the rythym. I was at an event recently where a mate was dancing simply by stiff-legged leaning. He's raise one leg and topple a bit in that direction. Then, when he'd leant far enough, he'd raise the other leg and lean in the other direction. It like C3PO trying to discretely fart in front of Princess Leia before blaming the smell on R2D2.
But back in the lappies, us men aren't allowed to dance. We're not allowed to do anything except sit on our hands and feel scared. Scared of the huge bouncers, scared of a predatory dancers exerting their not-inconsiderable power over men and especially scared that the Stag Night groom we brought in will use up all our cash. He took 'Nine Ladies Dancing' too literally. Until he was restrained, he went for dance after dance and was followed back each time by an angry looking girl who announced that "He said you'd pay!". We ran out of cash and were run out of the lappie. Haven't been back.
I'm neither qualified nor bothered to discuss the merits or otherwise of lappies. If they'd been around when I was a young man, I'd have been keen to go but also too scared and skint to actually go. Now that I'm older, I have no need to go as I have a great pair of moobs of my own to play with - big enough to play with but small enough to hide - that's the secret!
The same cannot be said for dancing. Although I rarely get the chance, I still love to throw some shapes on the floor. Pretty shit shapes, mind - I look like Peter Crouch repeatedly fucking-up the robot dance. If the music is tolerable, then I do like to frug, even if my dancing is pretty shitty, despite over 30 years of practice.
In the early 1980s, there were school discos. These were my only exposure to pop music. We had no pop music in the house. Top of the Pops was only watched with the sound turned down and then only so my dad could perve over Pans People. I was too scared to go to the Youth Club as it was the haunt of the school year above me, who were nearly all violent psychopaths. All in all, I knew nothing about music and less about dancing. Thank goodness for Madness, who pioneered the bloke dance.(I was too young for punk & the Pogo). Little more than exaggerated jogging on the spot while leaning backwards and then forwards, it just worked. I can still do it now although now I look like a middle-aged bloke having a heart attack while jogging. Which is about right.
In the mid 1980s it was the Tetbury Leisure Centre Disco. Ah... The Lezsh, with its chained-up fire escapes and lax drinking-age policy. Kestrel Lager (It bites!) and vomity experiments in alcohol tolerance. I was getting into more alternative music and so wouldn't dance to the dreadful sub-Soul Boy stuff that was so popular in the 80s. Us 'trendy wankers' had a short slot towards the end of the evening - after Wham! but before the smoochy numbers. We had a few minutes to hurl ourselves round to the Redskins or the Cure. But all too soon, the trendy music stopped and the smoochy stuff started.
God, I hated the smoochy stuff. I was not, by any measure, much of a catch back then and so I wasn't in the running for a smooch. I still get a sinking feeling when I hear "I'm not in love." A waste of good dancing time, spent instead on letting teenagers grope and drool in time to fucking awful music. Loves young dream loses its splendour when the soundtrack is provided by Lionel 'fucking awful' Richie.
A bigger dread than the smoochy stuff is that stable of shitty wedding DJs - "It's Raining Men!". There is a rule amongst all DJs that as soon as men have been dragged onto the dance floor - shy, awkward and nervous - they should be scared back to where they came from by a loud blast on "It's Raining Men!". The implicit message is that if you stay on the dance floor, you're gay. The actual message though, is that the DJ is a ****.
From the mid-1980s onwards, I have 'perfected' a dance style that has stood me in reasonable stead. I'll let you in on the secret. Simply move with the rhythm. That's all. Couldn't be easier, could it? Sadly, it does seem to be too hard for many. Next time you're dancing - look and see how many simply can't get their bodies to move with the rythym. I was at an event recently where a mate was dancing simply by stiff-legged leaning. He's raise one leg and topple a bit in that direction. Then, when he'd leant far enough, he'd raise the other leg and lean in the other direction. It like C3PO trying to discretely fart in front of Princess Leia before blaming the smell on R2D2.
But back in the lappies, us men aren't allowed to dance. We're not allowed to do anything except sit on our hands and feel scared. Scared of the huge bouncers, scared of a predatory dancers exerting their not-inconsiderable power over men and especially scared that the Stag Night groom we brought in will use up all our cash. He took 'Nine Ladies Dancing' too literally. Until he was restrained, he went for dance after dance and was followed back each time by an angry looking girl who announced that "He said you'd pay!". We ran out of cash and were run out of the lappie. Haven't been back.
Sunday, 1 January 2017
Eight Maids A-Milking
HAPPY NEW YEAR.
Today we're in the newsroom.
Over to our reporter, Lizzie Swallocks, for this report from Sweden.
The little town of Crispensock, in the forests North of Stockholm is playing host to this years World Handjob Championships. Wankers and wankees from all over the world gather in this sleepy town to compete in events such as the 2 Metre Target Spurt, the Marathon Bucket Race and the prestige event - the Synchronised Tug.
I caught up with hopeful competitors - Harry Palms and his team mate, Cindy Boobjob - who are competing in two events this year - the 50 Centilitre Sprint and the 5 Metre Skeet Squirt.
"Harry. How are you feeling about your chances this year?"
"Well. We've been training a lot. For the quantity events, I've been using the Marc Almond circular-swallowing method to ensure that I don't run dry. We've worked hard on accuracy and I'm confident that I can spooge on a clay pigeon from 5 metres, 9 times out of 10. Cindy has been working out hard and now has forearms like Popeye's"
I went to take a look at the Marathon Bucket Race where the English team of Russell Grant and Orville the Green Fluffy Bird were the first to cross the jizz ropes with an incredible bucket-filling time of 1hr 12min & 15 secs. I spoke to Russell about his incredible feat.
"Russell! Great victory there. How does it feel to be the bucket king?"
"Oh it's a lovely feeling but I couldn't have done it without Orville. His soft green feathers have made all the difference. I did the event four years ago with Rod Hull's Emu and had to have my cock sewn back together. And the time before that, Spit the Dog got us disqualified."
The whole town is looking forwards to the showcase event tomorrow when the Synchronised Tug takes place in the main arena. The local team of 8 Crispensock ladies and men are planning to put on a breathtaking display that they hope will surpass their display of four years ago when they recreated the Sydney Harbour Bridge Millenium firework display, using only coloured torches, two ladders and a lot of jism.
Team leader Felatia Tugemoff spoke to us earlier. "We have been working on a new formation based on a old Busby Berkley routine - one where we get to fill the swimming pool ourselves. We've taken our inspiration from a rotary sprinkler and a Catherine Wheel and will be tossing off the men so fast that we'll all start to rotate."
It sounds like it will be a fabulous display and one where the audience will want to take an umbrella.
All in all, it has been a great championships and everyone is hoping to be back in four years time. But for one shamefaced contender, this has been a bad week.
Hans Handy, 42, from Germany, was hoping to get gold in the Jizz Javelin event. However, a random doping test found that he tested positive for a massive dose of Viagra. As well as being banned, he's now suffering from an erection that won't go away. "It won't go down!. I have been looking at pictures of Anne Widdecombe and Susan Boyle doing lesbo porn and it still won't go down!" he moaned. Cheating never pays and there is no bigger badge of dishonour than travelling 1000 miles home with an orange traffic cone over your cock.
Back to you in the studio, Hank.
Today we're in the newsroom.
Over to our reporter, Lizzie Swallocks, for this report from Sweden.
The little town of Crispensock, in the forests North of Stockholm is playing host to this years World Handjob Championships. Wankers and wankees from all over the world gather in this sleepy town to compete in events such as the 2 Metre Target Spurt, the Marathon Bucket Race and the prestige event - the Synchronised Tug.
I caught up with hopeful competitors - Harry Palms and his team mate, Cindy Boobjob - who are competing in two events this year - the 50 Centilitre Sprint and the 5 Metre Skeet Squirt.
"Harry. How are you feeling about your chances this year?"
"Well. We've been training a lot. For the quantity events, I've been using the Marc Almond circular-swallowing method to ensure that I don't run dry. We've worked hard on accuracy and I'm confident that I can spooge on a clay pigeon from 5 metres, 9 times out of 10. Cindy has been working out hard and now has forearms like Popeye's"
I went to take a look at the Marathon Bucket Race where the English team of Russell Grant and Orville the Green Fluffy Bird were the first to cross the jizz ropes with an incredible bucket-filling time of 1hr 12min & 15 secs. I spoke to Russell about his incredible feat.
"Russell! Great victory there. How does it feel to be the bucket king?"
"Oh it's a lovely feeling but I couldn't have done it without Orville. His soft green feathers have made all the difference. I did the event four years ago with Rod Hull's Emu and had to have my cock sewn back together. And the time before that, Spit the Dog got us disqualified."
The whole town is looking forwards to the showcase event tomorrow when the Synchronised Tug takes place in the main arena. The local team of 8 Crispensock ladies and men are planning to put on a breathtaking display that they hope will surpass their display of four years ago when they recreated the Sydney Harbour Bridge Millenium firework display, using only coloured torches, two ladders and a lot of jism.
Team leader Felatia Tugemoff spoke to us earlier. "We have been working on a new formation based on a old Busby Berkley routine - one where we get to fill the swimming pool ourselves. We've taken our inspiration from a rotary sprinkler and a Catherine Wheel and will be tossing off the men so fast that we'll all start to rotate."
It sounds like it will be a fabulous display and one where the audience will want to take an umbrella.
All in all, it has been a great championships and everyone is hoping to be back in four years time. But for one shamefaced contender, this has been a bad week.
Hans Handy, 42, from Germany, was hoping to get gold in the Jizz Javelin event. However, a random doping test found that he tested positive for a massive dose of Viagra. As well as being banned, he's now suffering from an erection that won't go away. "It won't go down!. I have been looking at pictures of Anne Widdecombe and Susan Boyle doing lesbo porn and it still won't go down!" he moaned. Cheating never pays and there is no bigger badge of dishonour than travelling 1000 miles home with an orange traffic cone over your cock.
Back to you in the studio, Hank.
Saturday, 31 December 2016
Round Robin - 2016
WARNING - THIS BLOG POST CARPET-BOMBS THE C-WORD. DO NOT READ FURTHER IF YOU ARE EASILY OFFENDED.
2016 has been an arse of a year. I've personally lost two cats, one school-friend and my mother. In return, I've gained 8 kilos. By any measure, that's a shit deal.
All of us have lost this year. We've lost so many talented bringers of joy. Entertainers, writers, actors, comics and musicians. Gone and replaced by whom? Some X Factor Karaoke gimp?
And we've lost the warmer, safer, fairer world - a world that was admittedly clinging on by it's fingertips against the assaults of neo-liberalism, wars and David Cameron's fuck-awful government. We've had the Brexit vote, the open acceptance of racism and proud celebration of ignorance and xenophobia. We've had indifference and hatred toward migrants - trolls openly celebrating the deaths of other humans trying to escape war. We've had the murder of Jo Cox, the rise of the Alt Right, the election of Trump and the continued reverence of Farage, Johnson, Gove and other arch-liars.
2016 has been so bad that the Chinese have had to create another creature of the Zodiac. 2016 has been:
The Year of the Cunt
I can honestly say that a word that was banned from my vocabulary just 18 months ago, has been called upon and thought if not spoken so many times this year that I've had to keep a log.
You'll notice a spike in late June. This was Brexit. More of which shortly. Another smaller spike in November, when Trump's election victory dragged out the same sort of cuntery seen in June. There's no data for late December but I suspect another peak as Trump appears to have drained the swamp simply to make room to put more cunts in there.
Anyway, after the peaks, there is a tailing-off but the c-word is still frequently brought to play when having to converse with Brexiters and their ilk.
Although Brexit brought peak cuntery, there are many other factors this year that have had me reaching for the c-word. The major causes of thinking or uttering the word 'cunt' are listed and annotated below.
1. Brexit - The Players
So these are the cunts that orchestrated the whole thing. Farage. Gove, Johnson, Grayling, Patel, that awful prick Banks and so on. In fact anyone that got into the media to promote Brexit has shown themselves to be a dreadful fucking cunt. Lie after lie after lie. Xenophobic and nasty campaigns that placed all the blame for all out troubles upon the EU and immigrants. Arch-cuntery. And now because these irresponsible fuckers have got their way, despite lying their arses off, the country is going to suffer economic decline, social divisions and pretty much everything getting worse. And these cunts have such brass necks that when it all goes to tits and their lies are found out, they'll just blame the Germans, the remainers, the migrants - anyone but themselves. Cunts.
Update Dec 22nd. I never liked Farage but I'd just seen him as an unpleasant xenophobe who was savvy enough to not fuck up when given the oxygen of publicity. The BBC haven't spotted this and keep on inviting him on in the vain hope that he'll do a Nick Griffin. He won't. Stop inviting him.
Anyway, his recent comments about Jo Cox's widower have marked Nigel Farage out to be an end-level-boss cunt. Farage is indefensible, without any redeeming qualities whatsoever
Update Dec 22nd. I never liked Farage but I'd just seen him as an unpleasant xenophobe who was savvy enough to not fuck up when given the oxygen of publicity. The BBC haven't spotted this and keep on inviting him on in the vain hope that he'll do a Nick Griffin. He won't. Stop inviting him.
Anyway, his recent comments about Jo Cox's widower have marked Nigel Farage out to be an end-level-boss cunt. Farage is indefensible, without any redeeming qualities whatsoever
2. The Cameron Government
Elected as One Nation Conservatives, these cunts soon got that wrong and decided to be One Percent Conservatives instead. A succession of nastiness that sought to divide the nation and heap scorn and poverty upon anyone who was unfortunate enough to be disabled, unemployed or simply not rich. We'd all thought of the Lib Dems as be-sandalled Quislings but once they were out of the way, full cuntery ensued. Austerity meant that there was less and less public money available to support the nation. But at least that it meant that the public finances were healthier. Except they weren't. At all. Chancellor Osbourne managed to put an extra half a trillion pounds onto the Nation Debt between 2011 and 2015.
This government committed countless acts of cuntery - from bedroom tax through to giving Iain Duncan Smith responsibility over people's lives. But their longest lasting cunts trick was the Brexit referendum. They led a frankly fucking awful campaign to persuade us to stay - relying on a combination of arrogance and putting the frighteners on us. They lost, we lost and as soon as Cameron realised that he'd promised to invoke Article 50, he baled out. Because even he could see that whoever invoked Article 50 and pushed the UK over a cliff, would go down in history as the architect of a massive act of foolhardy cuntery. Which brings us to...
3. The May Government
Theresa May was Home Secretary for many years. She was pretty shit but was especially shit at two things. The first was reducing immigration. She had complete control over all non-EU migrants and set a target of 'tens of thousands'. She failed miserably. She plainly is stung by this failure and so pledged to make Brexit all about reducing EU migration. That means no Freedom of Movement which means no access to the Single Market or the Customs Union which means our businesses become embroiled in red-tape and tariffs, lose their competitiveness and are wiped out. Our imports become more expensive which is good for exporters but only if they can manufacture products made entirely from British produce. Which, given that the only thing we seem to produce in great quantities is narrow-minded cunts, does not bode at all well for our economic health. But at least Theresa will be able to say that she got migration down and will have bragging rights at whatever hive of cuntery she socialises at.The second thing that Theresa was shit at was negotiations with the European Court of Human Rights (ECtHR) Not only did she spout baseless bollocks about not being able to deport someone who owned cat (100% not true BTW) but she failed miserably to deport Abu Hamza because the ECtHR won't allow deportation to places of torture or inhumane treatment. Now, Hamza is a cunt - no doubt about that - but if the UK enables, encourages or uses torture, then we're no better. The ECtHR thwarted May (and her Labour predecessor who was also some way along the cunty spectrum) and so she's on a mission to remove us from the European Convention of Human Rights and replace it with a UK version. What will that be like? You can bet your arse it'll be depostic, cunty and ill-thought out.
And that's just May. Then there's her Cabinet. The 3 ministers of Brexit - Cunty, Cunty and the cunty one. There there's a Home Secretary with a shady past; a war-mongering defence minister and a transport secretary who opens his door on a cyclist and then leaves the scene without exchanging details. Cunts. Cunts who are currently (perhaps temporarily) supported by:
4. Brexit - The Supporters
Dunno about you but if I've been lied to and I find out about it, I get all cross with whoever had lied to me. I'd have to be pretty cunty to get cross at whoever had pointed out the lie. I'd have to be pretty cunty to pretend that the lies weren't lies. I'd have to be pretty cunty to refuse to believe facts and believe lies instead. I'd have to be pretty cunty to start shouting 'Get over it!' every time someone pointed out an uncomfortable truth. But it seems that being pretty cunty does seem to the be qualification to be a UKIPer or any other irrational supporter of Brexit. I say 'irrational' because I've not heard any good reason for the UK to leave. Make no mistake, the EU is pretty shit but it's the sort of pretty shit that we can sort out by working with others and changing it from within. It's certainly not going to be sorted out if we keep returning Farage and his disrespectful shower of expense-hoovering cunts over to 'represent' us. Like be-suited 'Brits on the Piss' football fans, they sprawl and brawl across Brussels making all of us look like cunts. Our 'ambassadors' to the EU are charmless, artless & clueless scroungers who piss on our nation's reputation at every turn. And they're cunts too.
And yet to the starry-eyed supporters of Brexit, Nigel Farage should be deified, sainted, ennobled and put in a position of power to negotiate our way out of the EU. That'll go well. I have some respect for Nigel Farage. Anyone who can wear yellow cords and drink that amount of booze without showing a piss-patch either has a bladder of iron or a double-bags the Tena Pads. I'm going with the latter.
And yet to the starry-eyed supporters of Brexit, Nigel Farage should be deified, sainted, ennobled and put in a position of power to negotiate our way out of the EU. That'll go well. I have some respect for Nigel Farage. Anyone who can wear yellow cords and drink that amount of booze without showing a piss-patch either has a bladder of iron or a double-bags the Tena Pads. I'm going with the latter.
Brexit supporters can be dreadfully cunty but really I should feel sorry for them. They've been played for suckers by the Brexit players. Easy populist stories that place blame elsewhere are far easier to accept than having to admit that pretty much all of the nation's problems have been caused by our own governments and their failure to invest in the state. The Brexit supporters are as much victims as the rest of us.
You'd think that a major political party would have stepped up and done everything the possibly could to show the population how staying the the EU benefits all of us. Which brings us to:
5. Her Majesty's Opposition
I have a lot of time for Jeremy Corbyn. I think he's a genuinely nice man with admirable values. I just wish that during Prime Minister's Questions, he'd unleash the verbal equivalent of Laser Tits and leave scorched earth where his opponent once stood.
They say that you can judge a man by the company he keeps. You can also judge a man by his enemies. Whichever way you choose, you'll find a fair range of cuntiness. Inept cunts; shouldn't be allowed to speak cunts and you've-not-really-got-the-hang-of-what-the-Labour-party-should-stand-for cunts.
Frankly, it doesn't really matter if the Labour party are united or not. Same as it doesn't matter who leads them. Whoever has that job will be vilified, demonised and lied ceaselessly about by our next selection of cunts.
6. British Media Barons
Tax-avoiding, Brexit-supporting, union-bashing, phone-hacking, reputation-trashing, hatred-spreading cunts. Not quite the Pepsi ad but you get my point. They have power without responsibility and don't really care at all about the damage they cause to society.Rather like our next shower of cunts.
7. Fair Fuel UK
We don't like to pay too much for petrol - especially as some of what we pay goes back to Saudi and Qatar where it allegedly goes to support ISIS and other extremist cunts. And so perhaps we should welcome Fair Fuel UK and their campaign to reduce tax on car fuel.That's what I thought when I saw in November that they'd saved £100 Billion in fuel duties. When I pointed out that that's £100 Billion that's not gone to schools, hospitals, pensioners, veterans etc. etc. they turned on me and went full Libertarian. They ranted on that tax is evil, the best economies have low taxation and that all governments are evil and all laws are wrong or something. I lost the details as they deleted the post and blocked me. However, they showed themselves to be the kind of cunt that pretends to be on the side of the little man when in fact they're an industry-backed cluster of cunts who simply want to defund the state. What's most impressive is that they've got their 'cunt score' in just two months.
On the broader subject of the toddler-like libertarians, I will hand over to the much-missed Iain Banks, who sums them up far more articulately than I can.
“Libertarianism. A simple-minded right-wing
ideology ideally suited to those unable or unwilling to see past their
own sociopathic self-regard.”
8. Road Tax Martyrs
In 1925, Winston Churchill said “Entertainments may be taxed; public houses may be taxed; racehorses may be taxed…and the yield devoted to the general revenue. But motorists are to be privileged for all time to have the whole yield of the tax on motors devoted to roads. Obviously this is all nonsense…Such contentions are absurd, and constitute…an outrage upon the sovereignty of Parliament and upon common sense.”In other words, paying Road Tax makes the cunts in cars think that they own the roads. They don't.
In 1937, Road Tax was scrapped - replaced by Car Tax.
And yet, 70 years on, the roads are full of cunts who think that they pay Road Tax and as such, only they are allowed on the roads. They feel that because cyclists don't pay "Road Tax", they shouldn't be allowed on the public highways.
Well now...
Roads are paid by the taxes that we all pay and so when I'm on my bike, I've paid just as much as you have, Mr Cunty Driver, even though I'm supposed to stick to the gutter on the narrow shitty bit of paint that passes for 'provision for cyclists'.
And even then, cunts in cars shout that I should go and pay Road Tax. How? Invent a time machine and travel back to 1936, queue up in a Post Office to be told that even back then, cyclists didn't pay Road Tax. I'd almost look as big a cunt as you do in your shit car, chucking out noise and fumes. In your shit car that spunks away your cash whilst sitting out in the road doing nothing. In your shit car that you bought to impress potential sexual partners but that failed miserably to attract anyone other than middle-aged men in motor-racing jackets; men with 'Castrol' written across the backs of their anoraks. It's a strange sort of man who so boldly declares his favourite lubricant. Probably the sort of man that does this:
9. Driving at excessive speeds in a 20 mph limit
Come on then. What's so fucking important that you have to drive so fast down a residential road? Down a road where kids are walking to school. Down a road with cyclists, pensioners and cats all over the place. Down a road where people live. It's a residential road - not a race track for bellends.Apparently, driving fast is supposed to be sexy and attractive. Fine. It is quite fun to do - on motorways and race tracks. But on roads where people live? It's simply cunty.
Worse are those who drive fast past schools. What possible legit reason could there be for trying to look sexy and attractive when driving past children? The cunts who drive fast past children are simply Paedos in Peugots; Nonces in Novas, erm... Deviants in Daihatsus? Whatever... They're cunts.
2017 will be much better.
Seven Swans A-Swimming
During WWII, my grandad (the Gloucestershire farmboy one) managed to get hold of some swan meat. There was a war on and anything that wasn't nailed down was eaten. He said that it was almost inedible. Very strong tasting with a rank fishy flavour. It was the one of the few things he said he'd never eat again - swan and a few of the things he'd tried eating to stave off hunger during a very poor childhood.
His late Victorian rural childhood involved eating anything he could get his hands on. Rabbit, badger, thrush - even fox. He drew the line at blackbird and hedgehog. He'd tried them but apparently they tasted even worse than swan.
The family were dirt poor. In the 1831 census, his own grandfather - one Jasper Roseblade - was listed as 'Occupation - Outdoor Vagrant'. Ten years later, Jasper had come up in the world and in the next census was recorded as an 'Indoor Vagrant'. Sadly, he blew his fortune on a turnip and the family returned to grinding poverty and outdoor vagrancy ten years later.
Because of his poor background, my grandad would eat almost anything - even chitterlings - the 'delicacy' made from pressed (and not always cleaned) intestines.
I've inherited his love of strange food. As I write this, I have some pigs cheeks bubbling away in the slow cooker. Wherever I went on my work travels, I would always ask to eat local specialities - especially the ones that tourists would be horrified by. Inevitably, that means tripe. Over the years, I've been served tripe several ways in several countries. All different & all lovely. I've had pigs ears, raw steak, raw shellfish and so on. In France, I was told by a local that I ate like a Frenchman. I took it as the compliment that it was meant to be.
I was given some chocolate made out of camels milk. It was ok but after I'd eaten it, I was told that camels milk is very creamy and thick and a bit salty. Also, it seems that camels have to be milked *very* hard and they only have the one 'teat.'.. I'll eat almost anything but I'm going to have to draw a line at dromedary jizz. Whilst it is respectful to animals to eat as much as can be eaten, the sperm is an exception and will not be knowingly eaten - I'm not Marc Almond. But it is far better - and less perverted - to have devilled kidneys or marinated & grilled ox heart than to tuck into the unused shagging muscle of a virgin bull - that's fillet steak to you.
Whilst working in Cheshire, I was in a hotel for so long that I got to know the chef and persuaded him to get some unusual things in. He got freshwater fish - perch and roach. Perch has bones like caltrops but is very delicious. Roach is like like chewed-up newspaper wrapped around toothpicks - only not so nice. Roach has so many small bones that after eating it, my throat resembled a game of Ker-Plunk.
As I get older, I find that high-fibre foods become more and more attractive - no better way to start the day than with an 18 inch stool.. I've always been suspicious of those who keep their libraries in their loo - it strongly suggests a poor diet. If you have time to read while you're on the lav, your diet is too low in fibre.
I saw a TV program that said that the diet of lorry drivers is kept deliberately low in fibre as there is little time time in the truckin' day for regular poos. Instead, the poor sods are kept on an appetising but unhealthy diet of bacon and fried bread to ensure that they only need to go once every three days.
When they do finally get the chance to poo, it's like a chair leg. The most effective technique get it out is to bounce up and down on the loo, while smacking themselves on the head - like human ketchup bottles. This does shift things but it usually smashes the toilet. The broken toilets you find all to often in service stations is not vandalism but simply the bad diet that the poor truckers are forced to eat.
In the home, it's more usual to find a corkscrew and maybe a crowbar alongside the library in the loo
A diet low in fibre is an invitation for Farmer Giles to set up house in your jacksie, which in turn leads to a spell in hospital - face down, bare arse in the air, while a surgeons 'repairs' your tradesman's entrance with an angle grinder.
Open up your minds and your mouths to the joys of veg, because the alternative is hitting yourself over the head followed by open arse surgery.
His late Victorian rural childhood involved eating anything he could get his hands on. Rabbit, badger, thrush - even fox. He drew the line at blackbird and hedgehog. He'd tried them but apparently they tasted even worse than swan.
The family were dirt poor. In the 1831 census, his own grandfather - one Jasper Roseblade - was listed as 'Occupation - Outdoor Vagrant'. Ten years later, Jasper had come up in the world and in the next census was recorded as an 'Indoor Vagrant'. Sadly, he blew his fortune on a turnip and the family returned to grinding poverty and outdoor vagrancy ten years later.
Because of his poor background, my grandad would eat almost anything - even chitterlings - the 'delicacy' made from pressed (and not always cleaned) intestines.
I've inherited his love of strange food. As I write this, I have some pigs cheeks bubbling away in the slow cooker. Wherever I went on my work travels, I would always ask to eat local specialities - especially the ones that tourists would be horrified by. Inevitably, that means tripe. Over the years, I've been served tripe several ways in several countries. All different & all lovely. I've had pigs ears, raw steak, raw shellfish and so on. In France, I was told by a local that I ate like a Frenchman. I took it as the compliment that it was meant to be.
I was given some chocolate made out of camels milk. It was ok but after I'd eaten it, I was told that camels milk is very creamy and thick and a bit salty. Also, it seems that camels have to be milked *very* hard and they only have the one 'teat.'.. I'll eat almost anything but I'm going to have to draw a line at dromedary jizz. Whilst it is respectful to animals to eat as much as can be eaten, the sperm is an exception and will not be knowingly eaten - I'm not Marc Almond. But it is far better - and less perverted - to have devilled kidneys or marinated & grilled ox heart than to tuck into the unused shagging muscle of a virgin bull - that's fillet steak to you.
Whilst working in Cheshire, I was in a hotel for so long that I got to know the chef and persuaded him to get some unusual things in. He got freshwater fish - perch and roach. Perch has bones like caltrops but is very delicious. Roach is like like chewed-up newspaper wrapped around toothpicks - only not so nice. Roach has so many small bones that after eating it, my throat resembled a game of Ker-Plunk.
As I get older, I find that high-fibre foods become more and more attractive - no better way to start the day than with an 18 inch stool.. I've always been suspicious of those who keep their libraries in their loo - it strongly suggests a poor diet. If you have time to read while you're on the lav, your diet is too low in fibre.
I saw a TV program that said that the diet of lorry drivers is kept deliberately low in fibre as there is little time time in the truckin' day for regular poos. Instead, the poor sods are kept on an appetising but unhealthy diet of bacon and fried bread to ensure that they only need to go once every three days.
When they do finally get the chance to poo, it's like a chair leg. The most effective technique get it out is to bounce up and down on the loo, while smacking themselves on the head - like human ketchup bottles. This does shift things but it usually smashes the toilet. The broken toilets you find all to often in service stations is not vandalism but simply the bad diet that the poor truckers are forced to eat.
In the home, it's more usual to find a corkscrew and maybe a crowbar alongside the library in the loo
A diet low in fibre is an invitation for Farmer Giles to set up house in your jacksie, which in turn leads to a spell in hospital - face down, bare arse in the air, while a surgeons 'repairs' your tradesman's entrance with an angle grinder.
Open up your minds and your mouths to the joys of veg, because the alternative is hitting yourself over the head followed by open arse surgery.
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