Friday, May 29, 2009

The Village Open-Air Orgy (+ Barbeque)

Obviously, there are now some preparations that need to be undertaken in order to make sure that Monday evening's all-village open-air orgy and barbeque all goes as planned.

It is a tradition in the village, dating back almost as far as the Pre-Sergeant Pepper era, to have the village's first open-air orgy of the year on the first day of June. This event is held to commemorate the first-ever sighting of a hippie in the village, and the subsequent discovery of just how well they seem to burn.

It was the consequent post-immolation euphoria, which - as these things tend to do - led to that first spontaneous orgy*. An orgy, as village legend has it, of such Bacchanalian excesses that Grand Old Uncle Stagnant put his back out. Subsequently he was then reduced to only the gentlest of hand-relief from the then Post-Mistress (Gloria Mammary-Swelling) for the following two months.

Of course, over the intervening period, many more hippies (usually trapped as they try to make their way to Glastonbury** along a nearby ley-line) have gone up in smoke at this time of year in order to commemorate that first day.

About a decade, or so, ago the post-orgy barbeque (strictly no sausages) was introduced in order to round the evening off nicely. There is talk of also introducing special fetish events (including an exhibition Inter-village orgy match), but some feel this may be a little too elaborate, for what is - after all is said and done - just a run of the mill village orgy.


*Recent research has suggested that this may have arisen due to the large quantity of… er… certain herbal substances that went up in smoke with the hippy. It seems he had secreted a large quantity of such substances deep within the recesses of his Afghan coat.

** Although, of course, these days Glastonbury festival is less a destination for hippies and more of a version of this, combined with this, for those of the middle-classes who still like to think of themselves as trendy, hip, cool or whatever the current teen argot is for ‘not quite past it’ is.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

On The Warming Of The Cockles

Now, if you already have your postmistress suitably restrained and awaiting the application of the peach slices, then be aware that there can be some untoward consequences if the aforesaid sliced fruit is not at least up to room temperature. It is vitally important if you want to become a true adept of the perverted arts that you understand how things like the temperature of substances (such as fruit slices, devices, unguents and even lightly-oiled firemen can have on one’s partner or partners in the putative act that you are hoping to soon get underway. The human body is a very sensitive thing (except in the case of Grand Uncle Stagnant, of course), and even more so in the case of someone prepared for the sensitivity and delicacy of most of the more imaginative perversions in the true adept’s repertoire.

The putative adept pervert should not approach these matters like a bull at a gate*, but with grace, delicacy and a full range of cream cakes for afterwards.

Consequently, unless a strong preference is expressed otherwise, then, one should never use the cockles straight from the fridge, but should allow them to stand and come to room temperature, before approaching the fisherman, especially if he is only wearing his fetish waders and bow-tie.

*Unless of course, one likes to indulge in fully-consensual rough field perversions, that is. In which case it is always vital to check the gate for any loose splinters beforehand, and to be confident that approaching the gate at speed will not – in any way – put a dent in your ardour, or cause an outbreak of dry rot in the crevices.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Cry ‘Havoc’ And Let Slip The Weasels Of Perversion

If there is no other reason other than this for you to cry ‘havoc’ and let slip the weasels of perversion, then – indeed – let this be reason enough. For all too often these days, we let the mundanities of existence become mountains in our path, if passable at all, then only with difficulty while we sit here around our gutted campfires in the foothills of despair fruitlessly gnawing on the meatless bones of our once proud hopes and dreams.

But, my little geometry set, it need not be like that.

Come, and take my hand (or vice-versa, if you prefer).

Let us go then you and I, now the systems analysts are spread out against the sky, and let us walk together down towards the deep river of sexual deviation and experimentation. Together we could find the place where we can go to dip our toes into a bath of lukewarm custard whilst you are dressed up as a pair of geography teachers and I rotate the melon in a clockwise direction against a star-filled sky.

However, if that is not enough to erase the last wisps of your existentialist foreboding, take my knee and follow me on down to our very own Little Frigging village pub, The Pervert’s Appendage, where tonight is Naked Dominos Night! Don’t forget, of course, to bring you domino spanner and your little red book of logarithmic tables.

See you there!

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

The Wild Accordion and its Predators

Sometimes, it seems there is nothing any of us can do to put a stop to the savage wailing of the wild accordions, as they go on yet another rampage through our local woods. Time and again, we hear the bestial wailing of the accordions and then the terrified shrieks and screams of the hairstylists as they are driven from their tree-top nests to flee in panic from tree to tree across the woods, often leaving all their styling brushes behind.

It seems that we only have one choice remaining. A choice we have to make with caution and reluctance, and not a little trepidation. As you probably know, the wild accordion has only one natural predator: the fully-bearded folk singer.

Of course, there was a time, long gone now, when folk singers used to run wild and free all over this fair land. But, after the now-legendary folk revival of the 1960s, they were savagely culled. It was thought - at the time - that the folk singers would pose a serious threat to the then still-delicate and barely formed pop music industry. Back in those days, though, no-one realised that the intensive farming of pop music - often with performers kept in cruel battery conditions - would lead to the bland stagnation of the current mass-produced pop scene.

So there is always the danger that if the folk singers are allowed to go wild and breed freely then there could easily be another folk music revival, which is something that all of us should view with some trepidation, as in itself it could presage an outbreak of blatant, no-holds barred Morris Dancing.

Friday, May 22, 2009

Helping Out At The Cakeshop

Of late, whilst my good lady wife Maureen has been helping to polish the firemen’s poles down at the Little Frigging fire station, I have been helping out down at the cakeshop. The cakeshop manageress, Fanny Knickerless, and her part-time assistant, Clitty Heftybaps, have both, at previous orgies in the village hall, complemented me on both the firmness and taste of my hot sausage. They have often suggested that they would like to have a portion of my hot sausage inserted into their sausage rolls down at the cakeshop.

I – of course – acquiesced to this request with alacrity, knowing that they would be more than happy to have me lick the cream from their apple turnovers and – perhaps – even offer me a good nibble of their fondant fancies in return. Then, obviously impressed by my outstanding culinary skills the ladies requested my assistance in making the holes in their doughnuts. I was more than happy to oblige, and even helped with applying some of my own farm-fresh cream over their eagerly proffered sweetened baps.

Not only that, both ladies seemed very exited by the fact that my visit to their premises had resulted in me also acquiring a splendid cream horn. Both ladies made it clear – however – that they would not allow me to leave their shop until both of them had had a taste of my cream horn, and a mouthful of cream each from it. Of course, I was most happy to oblige.

All, in all then a more than pleasant afternoon down at the Little Frigging cakeshop.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Field Perversions – An Introduction

Well, here we are again, aren’t we?

Aren’t we?

Oh, right….

Well, we’ll give it five more minutes and if they aren’t here by then we’ll just have to start without them. Although, with so many of them missing there will be several Indifferent Badger satellite location devices to spare. So, if any of you without a wheelbarrow and/or a partner or assistant with expertise in your particular perversion or deviation then I’m afraid you may have to consider pooling your resources and coming up with a group perversion that you all feel comfortable enough with. However, lubrication and/or devices will have to be requisitioned before we set off, as they cannot – obviously – be provided once we are in the field.

It would also be a big help if any of you who are experienced with hands-on tent erections could attach yourselves to the novices in order to give them a pointer, if required. In addition, those of you familiar with the lightweight and collapsible camping sex spatulas and other such field perversion devices will be invaluable in showing the newcomers how to set up their perversion devices once out in the field, especially the use of the foot pump for the donkey.

One last thing, before we set off, please make sure that you oils and unguents are securely fastened to your perversion utility belts, as we do not want to cause an environmental damage as we make our progress across the landscape, such as leaving behind us an inadvertently semi-lubricated sheep without a shepherd there to take full advantage of it.

Oh, and make sure your sex utensils are in a waterproof covering, in case of rain.

Right then, off we go.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

The Immersion of the Teeb Hags

Now, as we stand sex-weasels akimbo, at the very edge of the Little Frigging village boundary, near the river Teeb, we are ready to partake in a picturesque ceremony dating right back to the invention of tourism. The river Teeb is notable for the number of witches dunked in it during the witch-finding frenzies of the late 1600s, these so-called witches later became known as the Dunked Teeb Hags.

Consequently, every year around this time, when the tourists begin to return to the village in enough numbers to make fleecing them economically worthwhile, several denizens of Little Frigging head down to the river in a colourful and highly-photogenic parade to re-enact the ceremony known as the Immersion of the Teeb Hags.

In those more superstitious times, it was said that the devil would have intercourse with witches at their midnight Sabbaths. Although, it was never explained why he would want to, especially when he had access to all the best tunes and could therefore attract as many comely young ladies to his midnight woodland discos as he desired.

It was rumoured too that the witches rode* their broomsticks throughout the night. Although, in those days before the intimate personal massage device, ladies would make sure that the handles of their brooms were made as smooth and splinter-free as possible before mounting the broomstick.

Mainly, though, they were just old women, known as hags or crones, who tended to live alone, or with a number of cats. However, they did tend to know all the gossip of and about all the people in their immediate locality and so could be dangerous to those seeking power and influence.

Consequently, it was deemed vital to know officially if an old crone** was a witch, or merely just another rather weird old lady inhabiting several layers of knitwear and surrounded by a collection of cats.

Unofficially, though, it was a way of getting your own back if the love charm, or curse on your neighbour, had not worked in the way the hag had promised. Or, a way of getting revenge if the yearning looks you gave to you favourite sheep were not reciprocated even after you had performed the rites the witch had recommended, and – even worse - if she then refused to give you your money back afterwards.

So, once a woman was accused by someone of being a witch, she was captured and dragged down to the banks of the Teeb where she was first stripped naked and made to wear the special ‘Teeb’ shirt. Then the accused woman would be fastened into a large wooden contrivance specially-made for the purpose which would then be made to completely immerse the woman in the usually icy-cold waters of the Teeb.

The accused would then be made to parade, wearing only the wet Teeb-shirt in front of a specially-constituted panel of judges who would then award the accused marks out of ten, with the woman receiving the highest total score going on to the next round where she would then compete against the accused witches from neighbouring villages.

Of course, it was soon discovered that younger more attractive women made judging the wet Teeb-shirt competitions much more fun, and also seemed to attract larger and larger crowds, and – so – what in later years became known as the wet t-shirt competition was born.


*It is one of the delights of the English language that words can have more than one meaning and those meanings can have more than one sense, or even none.

**Old Crone – definition: someone you still don’t fancy even after 38 pints of Old Scrotum’s Brainknackerer.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Drugs In Sport Scandal

As we approach the end of the winter Inter-Village Orgy season, the Inter-Village Orgy League Community was, last night, struggling to come to terms with the greatest shock ever encountered in living memory.

The scandal emerged from stunning undercover footage from the BBC's premier current affairs programme: People Being Naughty, which shockingly revealed Little Frigging-In-The-Wold's star Inter-Village Orgy player, Strom Thighhammer, engaged in highly illegal acts of llama-sniffing.

If found guilty by the sport's ruling body, the IVOLA, Thighhammer could face an unprecedented ban of as many as three Inter-Village orgies in both league and cup, even - possibly - missing Little Frigging's opening European Orgy Cup match against the German Orgy Bundesliga Champions, Gotterdammerung Achtung, early next month.

The footage from the programme clearly shows Thighhammer illicitly visiting zoos, wildlife parks and llama farms throughout the country, and often in the company of other alleged camelid snorters, to engage in the sordid practice of sniffing llamas, a practice often used by leading orgy players feeling in need of an artificial pre-orgy match boost.

At a hastily convened press conference last night, a visibly shaken and repentant Thighhammer apologised for his misdeeds. The Little Frigging team doctor, Dr. Minnie Strayshuns, issued a statement stating that Thighhammer was receiving treatment for his llama addiction. The treatment weans the patient off llama sniffing by substituting the llama with a weaker substitute. Consequently, Thighhammer will be allowed, under strict medical supervision, a brief 5 second snort from a pair of sheepskin driving gloves every alternate day, thereby gradually reducing his dependency.

The Little Frigging Orgy team statement went on to say that Thighhammer had the full support of all the Little Frigging Orgy team, coaching staff and management. Not only that, it seems that the ladies of the Little Frigging village have all vowed to take Thighhammer in hand to assist him through this difficult time, and to assist in his pre-orgy training in any way they can, thereby easing him into his return to full competitive orgy participation once his ban from the sport has ended.

Monday, May 18, 2009

On Making Full Use Of The Orgy Pitch

Sometimes it can be a little too disconcerting to see one’s Inter-Village Orgy League team not making full use of the width of the orgy pitch, especially when they are trailing by several points or at least one multiple orgasm as the match enters the final quarter of the third half.

Of course, the orgy team themselves will no doubt be as eager as possible to make as much use of the other side’s end as they can, and – of course – to go deeper, especially as the clock begins to run down. However, there is always the danger of leaving the flanks exposed, especially in today’s stripped-down orgy-field fetish gear. This can often leave the opposition with an opportunity to sneak down the wings and get into a rear entry position that leaves your keeper exposed to a late match-winning multiple orgasm, or at least a surprised chicken on the goal line.

Therefore, it makes a great deal of sense to have both your left and right wing forward halfback sweepers mounted on their fetish unicycles. They will then be ready to catch the devices if the quarter-laid back manages to get a good grip on the devices and can pass them forward before the opposition can secrete them in their own well-forwards. This is especially important if your wing forward halfback sweepers are unmarked and within the regulation 10 yards of surprising the chicken.

Of course, there is the obvious danger that the opposing team will notice your wing forward halfback sweepers are mounting their fetish unicycles and will begin coating the inner-thighs of their defenders with marmalade in readiness. However, a good coach will already have the toast buttered, should your centre back-to-front require it.

However, there is a danger that if the umpire blows the referee for an extra time, then the fetish unicycles will need recalibrating when the ends are exchanged, which will mean taking your wing forward halfback sweepers off the pitch during the crucial final minutes. That, though, is a risk a good coach sometimes has to take, especially if it looks as though the cream cakes will run out before the umpire blows the referee for the final time.

Friday, May 15, 2009

The Instinctive Dread Of Lawyers

Of course, easing our way past the lawyer sties as they busy themselves suing each other for various real or imagined wrongs we can make our way out into the swamp towards the rear of the lawyer sties. Out here of course is where the young tad-lawyers feel most at home in the fetid miasmas that many ancients used to believe were where lawyers were created. Back in those far off days no-one had ever seen lawyers mating, so it was assumed that they arose out of the very airs of the swamps.

Of course, back in those days too, mothers used to caution their children against playing near any swamp and its all too real dangers by warning the children - with their natural, almost instinctive, fear of lawyers - that the lawyers would drag them off if they ventured too near the swamps. The adults would say that if the children were not careful and got too close, then the lawyers would rise up out of their swamps and grab the children, taking them away to become articled clerks and other such fearsome nightmares of the childhood imagination. Many a child was regaled with horror stories of how lawyers had risen up out of the swamps and captured children, taking them off to be Solicitor’s Clerks specialising in Property Conveyance and other such unbearable horrors.

These days though, through the innumerable nature programmes on the TV, we have all become far more familiar with the lifecycle of the lawyer, and some have even claimed arriving at a sort of tolerant almost-fondness for these still very alien creatures. Children are no longer told the tales of how lawyers will carry them off to a life of horror, servitude and legal documentation and so – it seems - they are less terrified of these creatures than the children of earlier more superstitious times.

Still, though, in the dark heart of the night, who knows what shadowy creatures are creeping through the minds of children when their thoughts turn towards the dark arts of litigation?

Thursday, May 14, 2009

The Philosophy Of Perversion – Part 1

Of course, one of the greatest philosophical problems of applied perversion is The Naked Traffic Warden paradox. Quite simply, it asks whether a naked traffic warden is – for the purposes of perversion – still a traffic warden. For it is the uniform of the traffic warden that signifies, that sets this person out, as a traffic warden. Therefore, removing the uniform makes that person just another ordinary person and the act then becomes un-perverse. To be naked, you have to – obviously – remove the uniform – but to remove the uniform is also to take away the very perversion itself, as it is only the person’s status as a traffic warden that moved the act into the state of the perverse. Without the uniform, it just becomes ordinary sex – which may be god enough for the hoi-polloi, but for the truly perverse, it is – at best – merely adequate.

This paradox has usually been resolved – in practical cases – by having the traffic warden keep his, her, - or, in more advanced perversions, their - official traffic warden cap on. For this can be seen to fulfil the necessary conditions for the naked traffic warden in that he, she or they, are naked, but, still, retain some of the status necessary to make the act perverse by retaining the official traffic warden cap.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

A Stroll Through Little Frigging

You may desire to dance like a terpsichorean structural engineer through the haberdashery section of your department store world, but down here, on the farm there are more pressing matters afoot.

Let me take you by the inner thigh and lead you through the streets of Little Frigging. I will show you things that will make you want to change your underwear into something slightly less utilitarian, even something wild and exotically stimulating.

From the extensive display of marital aids and other stimulating devices in the Post Office window, right through to the orgy garden at The Pervert’s Appendage (our village pub) with its fascinating variety of outdoor orgy apparatus and small mammal restraints, the village is a wonderland for those with a passion for the erotic arts, and even stamp collecting too.

For although, Little Frigging is now quite almost well-known for the quality of its current inter village orgy team, the philately world too is now showing a great deal of interest in our little village. For not only – unusually in this day and age - do we actually have a village post office it does remarkably enough actually still sells stamps. Although, as miss Entanglements (our postmistress) herself does say, selling stamps is a bit of a niche operation for the modern thrusting go-ahead post office whose main business seems these days to be anything but providing the necessities for effectively utilising the postal service. From tacky greeting cards through the most unfunny ‘humorous’ car stickers to party balloons and various other articles, the modern day post office seems awash with small plastic items of a tackiness, and low profit-margin, that can scarcely be believed.

Then we have the village green, a wide-open space in the centre of the village where such traditional rural pastimes as open-air orgies and Estate Agent immolations take place during the warmer months. Just beyond that is the infamous Little Frigging in the Wold duck pond, where on the 19th April every year tourists flock from all around the globe to see the annual immersion of Grand Old Uncle Stagnant as he takes his yearly (whether he needs it or not) bath in the duck pond.

Finally, at the other end of the village we have the village hall, no doubt familiar to you all by now, as so many postings here on the Official village Weblog about matters in the village seem to involve this village hall in some way. For without the hall, Little Frigging would not be half the place it is now. The frequent use of the hall for village activities is what binds the denizens of this small rural backwater together*.

So, there we have it: small, quaint even, but to those of us who know it, it is home.


*Literally, in the case of the all-village bondage evenings every first Thursday of the month.

Monday, May 11, 2009

Thermal Outdoor Fetish Gear

It is not often appreciated just how often one may need to don one’s thermal outdoor fetish gear during the spring and autumn months. The variations in the weather during these most changeable seasons mean that for the outdoor perversion enthusiast it is often quite a problem to find the most conducive operating temperature for one’s perversion gear, devices and utensils.

To take just one item at random from my perversion utility belt. I am sure we are all very familiar with the narrow operational temperature of weasel spleen oil: too cold, it has all the lubricating capability of a wire brush, too hot, and it evaporates before it even touches the skin of your cake shop manageress or suitably restrained postmistress.

Cold weather too, can make battery-operated devices sluggish. The damp can make certain other devices short-circuit, and such sudden burst of high electrical activity are not what most of us want from devices inserted - or inserting into such devices - intimate parts of the body*. As for a sudden sharp frost in the crevices, I think the less we dwell upon that at this juncture the better. This also reminds me about the effect the damp weather can have on joints, especially for those of us no longer in the first flush of youth.

So, the invention of this Thermostatically-Controlled Thermal Outdoor Fetish Gear has – to those of us who have suffered the deprecations inflicted by these changeable seasons - has no doubt been a boon. Most importantly, to those of us that enjoy our outdoor fetishes on a heavier, or even muddy, orgy pitch, then the way modern thermal outdoor fetish gear offers a complete seamless and impermeable integration with one’s fetish wellies, is a complete joy. Especially when the thermal leggings have integral perversion shin-pad retaining straps. Wipe-clean elbow-pads and kneepads are also a must-have, especially if the orgy pitch has recently suffered from prolonged rain showers. However, to my mind, the integrated snorkel may prove unnecessary, unless the locality is very prone to heavy flooding, of course.

The recent addition of emergency grab handles to various parts of the thermal outdoor fetish gear, which enable one’s partner - or partners - in the orgy or perversion to maintain a good solid hold on one’s person, despite, for example, the slippy ground underfoot, shows that the manufacturers have been paying attention to their customer’s demands and suggestions.

The only doubts I have are whether the supplied rechargeable battery pack for the thermostatically controlled integral body heaters may not be quite up to the full rigours of an entire orgy. However, it must be said that once the orgy or other deviation is well underway, one’s own body heat should be more than adequate, and the battery-powered heating can then be dispensed with.

So, all in all, I would recommend this Thermostatically-Controlled Thermal Outdoor Fetish Gear wholeheartedly. It can – of course – be ordered from the latest Splodge & sons Sex Aids Spring 2009 Catalogue.

*of course, there are more specialised devices that some people seem to enjoy which are designed to do just this sort of thing. Here of course I’m discussing devices, which – in the normal course of perversion or deviation – are not meant to deliver electric shocks to the person utilising them.

Friday, May 8, 2009

Another Wild Accordion Hunt

The spring has hardly begun and yet here we are standing together just outside the pursuit wind-powered weasel cages preparing to go on yet another wild accordion hunt. Personally, I blame global warming. You very rarely used to see wild accordions this far north. I can remember my granddad, in one of his more lucid moments, recounting the fact that he never even saw a wild accordion until the day after his wedding day - at age thirteen - when he was out in the woods hunting for a bunch of wild lawyers to take home as a gift for his new young bride.

We had tried to set up a few nesting boxes for some of the free-range hairstylists down in the woods, but as I've mentioned before, the hairstylists were attacked by the accordions. Hairstylists have very few natural predators (mainly only wild accordions and feral banjos), so we did think they would be able to nest in peace in our woods. But back then, we were not aware of the recent infestation of our woodlands by these accordions.

We had looked forward to calm peaceful summer evenings listening to the gentle susurrations of the hairstylists calling to each other about their holiday plans across the woodland from their nesting boxes high in the trees. Instead each night we hear the accordions begin their unearthly wailing and then the panicked screams of the hairdressers as they flee from tree to tree before that final last heartbreaking cry, and then silence.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

Hairstylists And Beauty Sheds

There is not much to be said, except that on a fine early spring morning like to day, one can begin to feel the sap rising and there are stirrings in the undergrowth. In the sharp cold air of the early mornings as the sun rises little buds can be seen bursting out all over the place, especially on the chests of the herds of hairstylists as they make their way across the fields and down to the beauty sheds. Once safely ensconced in the beauty sheds they will spend several hours of the morning in there preparing and preening themselves in order to face the day.

Then they have to make their way across to the dressing shed where they will spend many more hours deciding what to wear. An experienced free-range hairstylist breeder will know to make himself scarce during this period in case his advice is asked, or even worse if he foolishly dares offer any advice. Many a hairstylist herder has been brought almost to the brink of ruin by advising his hairstylists on what they should wear, or even worse telling them the truth when they ask him how they look. Being a practical person they farmer will – of course – suggest clothing suitable for the season, time of day and prevailing weather conditions, some young and inexperienced ones have even suggested wearing proper boots or wellies suitable for wear in a heavy soiled field.

Such mistakes are only ever made once. I can only tell you this, it is not a pretty sight seeing the remains of a farmer after he has caused his hairstylists to stampede. Especially if they have worried and trampled him – some of those high heels have very sharp points, and to be savaged by a razor sharp set of recently manicured and polished nails will – if you survive - leave scars that will last a lifetime – and not only on the body. A visit to a home for retired or mentally-damaged hairstylist herders is – indeed a very sobering sight. Especially if during a moment’s inattention one of the nurses or carers inadvertently leaves the TV on during an advertising break and the assembled retirees accidentally suffer the trauma of a hair care product advertisement. The pitiful wailings and screams can be heard from miles away.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Inauspicious Omens

Now we all stand here together, waiting. We know the time has come, but yet we are reluctant to perform the ultimate act. The Marketing Consultant is upon the altar, thighs buttered and raised in readiness. The Chiropodist-In-Chief has consecrated the jar of Holy Anointing Marmalade, and the okapi has been immersed in extra-virgin olive oil and lightly seasoned.

But, still, we wait.

The omens are not quite as auspicious as we'd hoped. Some of the television aerials are out of alignment and this morning none of the toast fell butter-side down!

So, perhaps it would be wiser to wait until all the homing goats have returned to the stable before we begin the rites.

It is a shame, I know, especially as the very nice lady from the cake shop, Fanny Knickerless, has gone to a great deal of trouble in making some rather appetising-looking post-orgy snacks. The Scotch Eggs, in particular, look very tempting indeed.

However, we must always stick to the ritual as laid down in the most Holy Handbook. We all know what happened last time we angered the Gods by ignoring the Sign of the Incontinent Badger on the Mantelpiece. I still have a bad back, Gladys Hushmythighs, our former local librarian (now retired), still walks with a slight limp, and Maureen herself still cannot bear to be alone in a room with a lettuce.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Well, Oh… Well

Well, there you have it. Or, to be more precise, there you have it - a well. Not very significant, or impressive, I must agree. Well, a well is – as it were – just a hole in the ground, really. So, as long as you can tell the difference between it and your own arse, there is not much else that I – or anyone else – needs to teach you about it.

However, this is a well in the middle of the village green of a small rural village. So, we denizens of Little Frigging have – quite naturally – recently made up some quite photogenic ancient and mystical rites and ceremonies based around this well in order to get some more tourists, and their money, into our village and do our best to separate the one from the other in as many ingenious ways as possible.

Separating tourists from their money is a proud, noble and ancient rural tradition, dating back to – and quite possibly beyond – the very beginnings of the historical record. For, by way of example, it seems that even before Little Frigging was a village, just a slightly less muddy patch at the side of the road where a hovel or two could be constructed, the denizens of this area have been finding ways of taking money off passers-by, even if it was just only that good old standby* Highway robbery.

During the medieval period Little Frigging, and some of the other nearby villages in the county of Upper Thyghspreader, made quite a good living separating pilgrims from their money through the use of some rather dubious Holy relics, such as an alleged slice of tomato from the Holy Last kebab of Nhighel, the Uttabollux prophet.

A few centuries later, Little Frigging became a spa – after some rather ingenious plumbing work suddenly created a ‘Natural Spring’, just around the back of The Pervert’s Appendage. Not only did that very inn have several rooms to rent for those wishing to take the waters, it also had – on prominent display above the bar – several glowing testimonials attesting to the miraculous restorative powers of the Little Frigging spa waters. The fact that all these testimonials seemed to be written in the same hand as that of the landlord - and to share his rather primitive grasp of both spelling and grammar – was put down to a rather curious side-effect of the curative powers of the waters.

Unfortunately, the Victorian predilection for far more robust sewer systems put an end to Little Frigging’s spa after a particularly virulent outbreak of cholera amongst the last (and - sadly - late) visitors to take the waters.

However, the sudden discovery of a suspiciously large number of paintings by the great Romantic and Impressionist painters in the attic of The Pervert’s Appendage was enough to get Little Frigging back on the tourist maps as a place of outstanding natural beauty and a thriving example of a typical British rural village. A distinction that we have done our utmost to perpetuate to this day in order to keep the tourists rolling in just long enough to separate them from their money before making sure they roll out again.

*Or, to be technically accurate, that good old stand-and-deliver-by.

Monday, May 4, 2009

Country Pursuits

Of course, back in those days, electronic badgers were almost unheard of. Those of us who could get them used clockwork weasels. But, for the majority of contenders, a field mouse operated by foot-pump was the best they could often afford.

Back in those days, of course, the sport was completely unregulated. People, therefore, turned up at the meets with whatever they could afford or cobble together themselves.

I recall such things as a water-powered hamster, a cocker spaniel adapted with the pedals from a Raleigh racing bike, a hot-air stoat, a steam-powered water vole and a push-along duck.

It often made quite a spectacle. A popular meet could have upwards of seven people, maybe a couple more on early-closing day, or if the pubs were shut.

We would set out for the Little Frigging woods in procession with the eldest - or soberest - leading the way. The leader would usually carry the large meet banner while leading the small woodland creature of choice. The two Under-Perverts, next in seniority, would follow the leader. In turn, they would be followed by the necessary six Vestal Virgins, or nearest local equivalent such as - in the case of Tupping-on-the-Marsh - usually Miss Primly-Vestment manageress of their cake shop. The rest, including any locals bored, or pissed, enough to bother, followed on behind.

Once out in the woods, at as close to the exact centre as we could divine using the strictly traditional methods, or, if either wet or cold, as far as we could be arsed to go, we would begin.

I don't need to go into detail here, as the old traditional forms of Woodland Creature Disconcertment are so well-known to all, these days. This is due mainly to the professional game now being shown for the full 24 hours, each and every day of the year on no-less than thirteen dedicated Woodland Sports channels, eclipsing even 24-Hour Non-Stop Celebrity Wife-Swapping Orgies as this country's televised spectator sport of choice.

Anyway, as soon as the meet was over, with the winner crowned with the traditional broken bottle by the most sore and disgruntled of the losers, the survivors would gather themselves, the remnants of their clothing, and their - often still-Disconcerted - woodland animals (in the sacks provided). We would then wend our weary way home - if we could remember the way back - proud in the knowledge of living through another never-to-be-repeated complete waste of an afternoon.

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Obnoxiotheclown Unmasked

For almost a week or two now, the blogosphere has been mildly indifferent to the true identity of mystery blogger Obnoxiotheclown.

Now – at last - it can be revealed:











[Hazel Blears]

Friday, May 1, 2009

On The Importance Of Pre-Orgy Warm-Ups

Well, here we are again, all together on this fine… er… nice… er… not too inclement morn. As you know, we are gathered here this morning to discuss some of the finer points of applied perversion.

Ah, I can see that some of the ladies have already got some of their finer points on display… well… it is, as I said quite a sharp, cool morning. I also see that some of the gentlemen are suffering from the unseasonably low temperatures this morning too.

Anyway, be that as it may, and as it is probably about as may as you are going to get, let us tarry no more.

So, if you can all form threesomes in the sex ratio that you prefer, then we’ll have a quick circuit of the orgy pitch in order to get ourselves warmed up.

I cannot stress the importance of a well thought-out warm-up session before you even consider participation in any orgy situation, especially the outdoor orgy where - as we have already seen – such variables as variations in the ambient temperature can have many unforeseen – and in the case of some gentlemen un-see-able – consequences.

Right then, off you all go, and I will see you all here after you have all done a full circuit of the orgy pitch, including full use of all the devices and apparatus (providing the chicken is in the mood this morning, of course). Then I’ll see you all back here in half an hour when I will be handing out the perversion harnesses and individual bottles of lubricating unguents.

Right, then! Off you go!

And no cheating with the goat – I will be watching you!