OK. There isn't really a thirteenth day of Christmas. Most of us are pretty fed up with Christmas by 11am on Christmas Day. Booze and roast potatoes can stretch the pleasure until the early evening but by then, the whole festive season stagnates into a fug of familial tensions, sprout farts, futile scented candles and bloated apathy.
I've enjoyed writing the blog over the past year or so. I've had over 2000 hits even before the smut bombardment of posts over Christmas (3300 now!). I had hoped that it would have gone viral - that people all over the world would be trying to buy Vajingles for Christmas or waxing their bollocks to re-create the Newtons Cradle trick. It hasn't got viral - it had a bit of a sniffle so took itself off to bed. Once its cock was too sore to touch, it was back at work. Pretty much like most of us when we're off sick , I would guess.
I've been told that I've made some people laugh - this gives me enormous pleasure. Ideally, I'd have done it face to face and made you laugh beer through your nose. But remotely over the internet is the next best thing.
As I've enjoyed in and you both seem to have enjoyed it too, I'm going to step it up a bit in 2014.
My goal is to write a post for every day in February. 28 separate posts in 28 days. (It's not a sodding leap year is it?)
What I need from you is a topic. Simply send me an idea, an outline or even a single word and I'll do my best to embroider it with knob and bot gags. Leave it as a comment to this post, thanks. It will be anonymous unless you ask for me to tell / invent a story about you and your suggestion.
If there aren't enough suggestions, you're going to get a series of monologues about running Linux on a mainframe and as a special 'treat', I'll try to squeeze in as many long words as possible.
Thanks very much and have a cracking 2014.
Monday, 6 January 2014
Sunday, 5 January 2014
Twelve Drummers Drumming
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.
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, 4 January 2014
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 solvents at a printers for a couple of years. But glue isn't really a proper grown-up drug like cannibis is. Glue doesn't count.
Everyone remembers their first joint. Mine was in Tetbury Rec. (Recreation Ground. Well... Procreation Ground really) 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 either 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 (Not spelt like that but pronounced like that). 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 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 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 it, 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.
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 (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 solvents at a printers for a couple of years. But glue isn't really a proper grown-up drug like cannibis is. Glue doesn't count.
Everyone remembers their first joint. Mine was in Tetbury Rec. (Recreation Ground. Well... Procreation Ground really) 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 either 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 (Not spelt like that but pronounced like that). 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 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 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 it, 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.
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 (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.
Friday, 3 January 2014
Ten Lords a-Leaping
I grew up in a small town in rural Gloucestershire. We had royalty all around - Prince Charles, 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 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 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 grumpy 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 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 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 grumpy 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.
Thursday, 2 January 2014
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 a gayer. 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 staggee 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 a gayer. 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 staggee 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.
Wednesday, 1 January 2014
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 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. 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 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. 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.
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