Skin Flicks

I've always been a pimply fker.  From adolescence to middle-age, I've been prone to spots.  My 83 year old mother still gets teenage spots.  It's a family thing.  My wife has perfect skin and hardly ever gets spots.  On the rare occasions that she does, her inexperience means she hacks away until she has genuinely made a mountain out of a molehill.   I have years of practice and can surgically excise even the most stubborn pimple.

I never really got the huge adolescent zilters that could feed the five thousand - just annoying zits that usually come from poor hygiene.   Apart from the teenage period of not washing as that would mean losing the wondrous new smells eminating all over, I've always been careful about washing my hands and face.   It doesn't make much difference - dirt still seeks me out and settles on me seconds after washing.

Not everyone washes their hands.   I often want to follow someone out of the gents and loudly announce "This dirty fucker didn't wash his hands".  However, I don't want to get punched by pooey hands.  These are grown men who come straight out of the trap and out of the toilets without even a glance at the sink.  Ugh!

I worked with a bloke once who used to go for a piss and then dry his hands under the dryer.  That  left his hands pissy-wet as hand dryers are rubbish.  He was sacked for being a ****.

Because hand dryers are so crap, I frequently have to assure someone whose hand I've just shaken that the moisture is from an inadequate dryer and not just piss.  Breaks the ice but they do tend to hurry away and avoid me after that.

A recent addition to the long list of middle-aged c**t-tricks that nature plays on me is Roseacea.  Along with knackers like a Gauchos' bolas, growing BFG ears and nose and the Pube Sabbatical*, I now have bad skin again.

Like all men, I've not gone to the doctors and instead have self-diagnosed over the internet.  I shouldn't have done this.  Partially because it is deeply stupid and partially because the prognosis was very bad.  Roseacea is incurable and usually flares up after spicy food and / or alcohol.

So, a question for you, dear reader.  Do I give up booze and spicy food and have mediocre skin?  Or shall I carry on as I've always done with the added 'appeal' of a facial rash?

I have stopped drinking before.  It is terribly dull.  The evenings go on for ever. Maybe I need a hobby.   While internetting the Roseacea, I found this video.   Hard-core porn, daredevil stunts, cute kittens - none of them are as fascinating as this.  I've watched it again and again and still I find myself gasping, wincing and then cheering.

The patient has nurtured a blocked pore for 25 years.  Her friends (I assume they're friends - they certainly aren't doctors) decide to get the contents of the pore out using the bluntish end of a needle.

Be warned - it is horrible.  But it is also fascinating.   My new hobby is to allow a pore to block up for 25 years and then film it being squeezed.  I'll charge people to watch.   It is a far better financial plan than my pension.

http://www.minds.com/blog/view/208534/clogged-pore-for-the-past-25-years


Hungry now?




*Not sure if I've mentioned the Pube Sabbatical before.  After 30 years of hanging round your bollocks, your pubes get to take a holiday in your eyebrows or ears. 

Dancing Cheek to Cheek

This isn't about the new series of Strictly Come Dancing.  A great program but even more of a masturbation minefield than Eurotrash was   (Charlie Brooker's joke - many thanks Charlie) .  The chances of having your vinegar strokes ruined by Bruce Forsyth shuffling up and asking "Didn't he do well?" are far too great to even risk it.

No.  This is about Rugby.   For American readers, this is a sport when the men don't ponce about in armour and tight disco pants.

My 8-year-old son has just taken up Rugby and is very keen on it.  He has size, speed and strength that all come from his mothers' side of the family.  He does tend to dick around and avoid getting stuck into tackles - that comes from me.

When I started at the local Comp at 11, they'd just started playing Rugby there.  There wasn't much of a pitch at that time - they marked out an area of boggy thistles that was more like Eeyore's field than a sports ground. 

None of the teachers really knew much about Rugby and so the games were pretty much an extended bout of British Bulldogs played in horizontal, freezing rain.

Some 11 year old boys are far, far bigger than others.  It was carnage.  I was 6 foot tall but about 8 inches wide.  I was snapped like a twig as enormous Taz*-like boy-men came running straight through me.  Put me off for life.

Part of me is a little sad that my son is so keen on Rugby.  I'd wanted him to take up Ballet instead as I felt that that would be better for him when he is an adult.  Playing adult Rugby involves a lot of hanging round with other Rugby players and getting cocks out etc..  If he'd become a professional Ballet dancer, he'd be hanging round with attractive girls who can put their ankles behind their ears and have to live on on high-protein diet.  How can Rugby be better than that?

Sadly, Ballet is seen as gay and effeminate whereas Rugby is, of course, manly and not gay. .

His training sessions are better organised than what we had at school.  Last week they learned how to tackle.  Seems that the proper way to tackle is to put your face cheek against the opponents arse cheek - as if you're trying to sniff their farts.  At the same time, grab round their legs and bring them down.  Face to arse - Cheek to Cheek - that's the secret.

However, it is a secret that has to stay secret. If you're watching your son play rugby and he's about to tackle, do not shout "Go for the arse!"  You will be asked to leave.

I realise that I missed out on a lot by not playing Rugby.  And by not taking up ballet, come to that. Mostly have the shit kicked out of me once a week.  But I also missed out on the bonding rituals - burning off each others pubic hair; spraying Deep Heat onto each others hemorrhoids; lighting each others farts...   .... in the roaring log fire of a pub and of course, the tours.

This is a Rugby tour story told to me by a friend.  The 'what happens on tour stays on tour' rule that would normally stop this story being told, was broken when the story-teller felt that he'd better do the decent thing and save a team-mates marriage.  Up until this point, he was happy to keep schtum - not because of what he did but because it simply isn't the done thing to 'fess up to tour activities.  At no point, did the story teller - let's call him L__  - feel that he'd done anything wrong or indeed, anything gay. 

It was a tour in France.  The team had played some French town and then did the usual bout of stunt drinking, minge-burning, fart lighting etc.   About 1am, L__ got back to the hotel room and found his room mate asleep on the bed - flat out, face down and stark-bollock-naked.   L__ is a responsible sort of guy so he checked his room mate was ok and got him into the recovery position.

Then, as L__ is a Rugby player on tour and therefore un-fettered by the laws that bind the rest of us, he went to his kit bag and got out the Vaseline.   Not sure why Vaseline in needed in Rugby but apparently it is.   L__ gets a teaspoon from the tea and coffee facilities - it was quite a posh hotel for rural France - and gets a spoonful of Vaseline.  He then very casually spoons the Vaseline up his room mate's arse.  But it's ok - it's a  Rugby tour and therefore not gay. 

Because L__ is a considerate sort of chap, he washes the spoon and puts it back for the next guest.

L__ then plays a c***s trick.   He shakes his room mate awake and starts to question him.  "Are you alright?  Who was that bloke in here?  I came in and there was a Frenchman.  I thought he was nicking stuff.  He ran past me when I opened the door.   Come on - help me see if anything has been taken."

And then...

"What's that stuff round your arse?"

Bleary room mate checks his back passage and finds he's all lubed up and ready to go.  He goes pale and then into the shower where he stays until he's washed himself raw.  For the rest of the tour, he says little and drinks less.  When he gets home he makes excuses to avoid sleeping with his wife.   It's only a few weeks later that L__ fesses up and - unbelievably - they all laugh about it. 

So...  Dancing with beautiful women - gay!  Ladling lubricant up an unconscious mate's trademan's entrance - not gay!  Am I missing something here?


*Taz - the inarticulate Warner Bros cartoon Tasmanian Devil