Thursday, April 30, 2009

The Inter-Village Perversion League 2008/9 Season And Its Disappointments

Today there is little we denizens of Little Frigging can do to counter the feelings of ennui we feel as the Inter-Village Perversion League season for 2008/9 winds down to a close. There is something dispiriting about finishing mid-table. A feeling that if it were not for the injuries – one week four of our top players were all out with the dreaded itchy knee, and our leading free fondle scorer, Strom Thighhammer, was suffering with a severely dented ardour – we would have made a much stronger showing this season.

There is also the related point that if it were not for some moments of good luck:

  • a last minute orgasm denial against Lower Crotchstaine,
  • a controversial decision by the referee to deny a free fondle to Tupping-on-the-Marsh leaving us to win the match by only 3 points and a quite confused chicken,
  • Much Piddling’s full frontal attack by their leading scorer, Dilly Tanty, thwarted by an errant divot on a very muddy perversion pitch,

then we could have been looking at relegation. The point where going down takes on quite a different meaning and is far from the crowd-pleasing spectacle it can be on the orgy pitch.

Still, though, we are quietly confident that next season will be much kinder to our team. For, I – for one - have a feeling that, with the aid of some photographs acquired by Grand Uncle Stagnant of the events immediately after the bar closed at the Inter-Village Perversion League Referees And Other Allied Match Officials Annual Dinner Dance last month, these crucial refereeing decisions will – at last – begin to go more our way.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

The Perverted Greengrocer

Those of you with a fully-developed instinct for the perverse will almost automatically know the value of an exactly placed tomato in order to increase the erotic intensity of a sexual experience. Sally Doyle, our local green grocer, has become – by nature of her intimate acquaintanceship with all manner of fruit and vegetables – something of the village expert in the erotic possibilities inherent in fruit and vegetables. Her melons have – in fact – become the talking point of the whole village for their firmness, ripeness and size, always attracting a large crowd whenever she displays them to their full advantage.

However, it is her wide familiarity with the perverse uses to which fruit and vegetables can be put which has made her invaluable to the Little Frigging Inter-Village Orgy team, in this season’s attempt to win the Inter-Village perversions cup.

Her use of the unusually-shaped carrot during the semi-final first leg of the third test play-off extra-time penalty shoot-out of last season’s Inter-Village Perversions Cup Winners Cup Winners Cup Cup has gone down in sporting history. Her inspired use of this vegetable enabled the Little Frigging Inter-Village Orgy team to win the match in the dying seconds by one goal, two touch-ups and a briefly aroused chicken.

Her introduction of the surprise radish has also enlivened our weekly OAP orgies in the village hall, bringing a smile to many a senior citizen’s face on each Wednesday afternoon.

Furthermore, Sally Doyle’s use of the cucumber lubricated with a generous coating of homemade salad oil has been generally credited with putting the spring back into the step of our local magistrate - Colonel Fitz-Tightly, who claims it has done wonders for his arthritis.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

A Putative EU Ruling

However, as we stand here resplendent in our village orgy shin pads, mittens and elbow-restraints, let us pause for a moment and remember those who have gone (and – of course – come) before us. Free-To-All-Comers Orgies - as a person of your wide experience must be all too willing to attest – are not without their pitfalls.

Although, having said that, there is a putative EU ruling about the use of pitfalls in orgy rooms and on perversion pitches currently before the EU Chamber of Ministers, despite the strong – and very vocal – opposition to such an imposition on the freedoms of the orgiastically-inclined to use whatever methods they deem appropriate to keep the riff-raff out.

Therefore, the Grand Order of Orgy Masters, Perversion Majors-Lieutenants and Other Erstwhile and Allied Rude and Naughty Persons of Good Standing have decreed that:

henceforth - and until they see the good sense of rescinding these proposals - that ALL members of the government, their agents, underlings and supporters be barred from taking part in any organised orgy, perversion event or any other gathering of a rude, moist and naughty nature.

Rumour has it that there is already movement afoot within the corridors of power to reverse all decisions made on this subject, and – if necessary – for the UK to withdraw from the EU unless this course of action is halted. It is said by political commentators that they have not seen the wheels of government turn this fast since the last time the perks and privileges of the government and its various toadies were under threat of termination.

A Lesson for us all there, I believe.

Monday, April 27, 2009

Bicycle Clips

The indifferent herbaceous borders stare back with insufficient regard as to the overwhelming significance of our bespoke bicycle clips as they glitter and glister in the morning sunlight, as Maureen and I - once more - mount our tandem in our seemingly never-ending quest to bring you tales of instruction and stories of edification.

You may ask - and I'll admit it is a fair question - why we don such accoutrements when we are renowned throughout Little-Frigging-In-The-Wold and environs - and now (through this… er… whatever it is) throughout the worldwide interwebnets thingy - for our staunch belief in the bounteous benefits of naked tandem riding.

Yes, you may well indeed ask.

Oh, you want me to answer?

Sorry.

Right.

Well, as you may have gathered from your, no doubt astute and frequent perusals of this, my rather splendid organ, neither Maureen nor I are still in the first flush of youth. Consequently, as you may know - being of the sort of reflective, philosophical and mature cast of mind that this… er… whatever it is seems to attract - that there comes a time to all of us when things that once stood proud and firmly upright begin to suffer from the remorseless pull of gravity.

So, in order to avoid painful and sometimes embarrassing accidents: for example, (and this may tend to make readers of the gentle sex - and some ladies - wince a little, for which I apologise in advance) I need only mention the possible disastrous consequences of an inappropriately secured mammary coming into conflict with the cycle chain, or a incautiously placed scrotum in the vicinity of a rapidly rotating tandem pedal, not to mention nipples and the danger from too-rapidly applied brake handles.

I think such examples do demonstrate the necessity of bicycle clips for the - shall we say - more mature naked tandem rider. I, therefore, hope that you gentle reader, take such freely-proffered advice to heart and henceforth proceed with all due diligence when attempting such adventures.

I bid you good day.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

The New Official Weasel-Bewilderment Authority Helicopters

So, there it was, all spread out before us like a… a huge spread out thing. Then you said… well, whatever it was you said. Then, after a moment's cogitation of your wisdom, I nodded in profound agreement. Then we put our clothes on and came back home.

It is not often that we get such a memorable day out, especially in a place so… well, so much like you said. Personally, I couldn't have put it better - so I haven't.

Be that as it may, I see you have now adopted a stance of complete and utter helicopter indifference as the sound of whirring blades comes ever closer. Me, I find it hard to adopt a seemingly-innocent stance, especially when I am clutching a day-glo orange weasel cue with imitation purple velvet hand grips and lightweight racing pedals festooned with reflective strips intended for high-visibility weasel-cue wielding in low-light conditions.

Even though the weasel-bewildering season is now in full swing, I still find myself overcome with apprehension whenever the new official Weasel-Bewilderment Authority helicopters hone into view. Maybe it is because of the banning of foxhunting and estate agent immolation - both strong rural traditional pastimes, and the threatened outlawing of sniggering at the Welsh, but I fear for the future of more of our rural pastimes. You may laugh when people talk - late into the night - of many such things soon being made illegal, such as drowning witches, marrying your siblings, eating a Cornish Pasty in a manner likely to cause a breach of the peace, toenail-clipping hording, or watering your hairstylists with a garden hose.

But we all must remain vigilant. We have a government seemingly intent on imposing its own narrow and hollow vision of the way they want things to be, and - it seems - no-one who dares step out, or look beyond, those narrow confines is going to be allowed the freedoms, so hard fought for, and formerly so taken for granted.

It seems we are living now, in the twilight years of our former freedom and all the high-visibility clothing - with no matter how many reflective strips - will not be able to save us once we enter that darkness.

Friday, April 24, 2009

On Brussels Sprouts And Other Erotica

Concerning the Brussels Sprouts of our fevered erotic imaginings and longings, it is not hard – although it soon will be – to see why such sexually provocative brassicas have such a firm grip on our erotic desires and urgings. The sprout – far from just the hideous vegetable of childhood mealtimes – does - when the troublesome years of adolescence are passed – often come to occupy a central role in the erotic imagination of the more inventive adult.

Who of us gathered here today – being all of open mind, mature of thought and loose of under-garmenting as to when it comes to giggling childishly about the erotic doings of other people – has not in the deep watches of night felt a stirring deep in the loins whenever the mind wonders on the erotic possibilities contained within the humble domestic vegetable rack?

Carrots, parsnips, leeks and even corncobs will – of course – be familiar and obvious for their inherent erotic possibilities. However, those of us gathered here today are – of course – well advanced past such minor perversions and deviations, having already – perhaps – sampled the erotic capabilities of the pickled beetroot, the perverse delights of erotically placing broccoli upon a tethered and suitably moistened chiropodist. As for spring cabbage and a tightly-restrained bank manager, I’m sure I do not need to go into any greater detail there.

So, onto Brussels sprouts…. Or, rather the Brussels Sprout in erotic proximity to a lightly-oiled traffic warden wielding sex spatulas in a provocative manner is enough to….

Er… if you could all just excuse me for a minute or two… there is something I just need to go and adjust….

Throw The Bums A Dime

Once upon a time you dressed so fine
You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn’t you?
Peopled call, say, beware doll, you’re bound to fall
You thought they were all kiddin’ you*

I’m sure that my reader (and your friend) must be familiar with those famous opening lines from Bob Dylan’s ‘Like A Rolling Stone’. However, you may not be aware that the ‘throw the bums a dime’ refers to an old rural pastime that has been played certainly in Little Frigging and its environs, for many centuries. Some scholars have even suggested that it is in fact a modern reworking of an old pagan fertility, or marriage ritual.

For those of you not familiar with the pastime as it has come down to us, maybe a little explanation is probably in order.

First, the so-called ‘dime’, this is not as it later became known in the Americas a coin, although there is some resemblance. A dime, for the purposes of the game is a hand crafted highly-polished and often individually decorated circular wooden counter, a regulation eighth of an inch thick with a diameter of two and a half inches**

The game itself can be played either indoors, traditionally in England either in the bar of the local pub or the village hall, or - if outdoors - on the village green. However, providing there is the room available for the pitch – or, to give it its official name, enough ‘Arsing About‘ room, then the game can really be played more or less anywhere.

The players are first divided into pairs; usually each is a team of a man and a woman, although, if the players are willing, and that way inclined, this may not be strictly necessary these days. However, according to folklorists, this traditional pairing of the sexes harks back to the early days of the pastime when it was used as a ritual where the unattached young men and women would use the game to choose their marriage partners.

The two players on each team are called The Bum and The Tosser. The Bums kneel down on their elbows and knees on the official line, or as it is known ‘The Arse Crack’, directly in front of, but facing away from their Tosser. All the Tossers then approach the Oche line***.

The Tossers each now take careful aim, of course, how careful depends on just how much they have imbibed beforehand. Then they toss their ‘dimes’ towards the Bums. The Bums have to try to catch the ‘dime’ between the cheeks of their bum.

In the modern game, for each dime that is successfully caught the team earns one point for that round. The teams that fail to score in each round have to buy those who do score the drink of the scoring team’s choice****.

The winner is the first team to score twenty points, or to be the only team still capable of standing up unassisted, whichever is the sooner.

Of course, in the traditional matrimonial form of the game, it was assumed that any couple who could catch enough of each other’s dimes must therefore be compatible and marriage must thenceforth soon follow. Of course, it also meant that if the man or woman in any particular pairing didn’t fancy their putative partner they could throw to miss their partner, or even manipulate their cheeks so that they didn’t catch the dime. This gamesmanship would, obviously, prevent any discord or disharmony between the couple until - as traditional - after their wedding, when the normal marital hostilities could begin.

*Like A Rolling Stone – Bob Dylan. Of course, Like A Rolling Stone is another rural pastime, usually played after closing time when the player attempts to get back home without ending up in the village duck pond. Bonus points are awarded for managing to visit as many takeaways in the village as possible before arriving home.

**Obviously, in European countries they do tend towards the metric, for example the German ‘Dimensplatentargen’ is 5 mm thick and with a diameter of 60 mm

*** Some folklores and historians contend that the use of the Oche suggests that somewhere in the mists of time Throwing The Bums A Dime and Darts, both common pub past times for centuries, must share a similar root. Although, our Health and Safety representative has pointed out that playing Throw The Bums A Dime with darts instead of Dimes is NOT recommended.

****Hence, folklorists believe the use of the word ‘round’ when buying drinks for others in the pub. They also believe this is where the traditional unwillingness to ‘get one’s round in’ comes from, a folk memory of feeling one is on one of the losing teams.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

The Perverted Races

However, when our knees begin to oscillate with the tremulous desire for more advanced kinds of naughtiness we know we have little choice but to make sure the wheelbarrow is oiled and the unicycle is in a good state of repair. Of course, it is hard these days to appreciate fully what a cultural desert this fair land had become before it was rescued from its intellectual torpor by the swift introduction to our otherwise moribund TV schedules of the now legendary Wacky Races. Little Frigging’s Perverted Races are our tribute to this feast of televisual entertainment.

Mobile perversions can be – it goes without saying – rather tricky at the best of times, and not for the amateur to attempt without a suitably experienced mentor. Mobile perversions in a race situation are of a very different order altogether, and should – therefore only be attempted by a pervert of long standing, especially if there is the chance of the marmosets becoming restless in the chicane.

Last year’s race was won – for the second year in a row – by our very own Post Mistress Miss Labia Entanglements on her goat-powered turbo combine harvester with customised chiropodist restraints and an automatic weasel unguent dispenser for those tricky blind corners out near the river Teeb just past the back straight.

My own dear wife Maureen Trouser-Quandary came second (as Usual) naked on her unicycle with integral Throbbing Weasel 90000 attachment and retractable tupping harness for the traffic warden.

Third place was a tie between Strom Thighhammer in his specially-adapted village fire engine with integral au pair and bondage hammock, and Fanny Knickerless (the cake shop manageress) astride her pump action velocipede powered by hand-reared turbo-badgers dressed in Swedish maid costumes and pushed by a ‘friend’ of hers in full rubber stockbroker fetish gear and ball gag.

I hope this year’s event next weekend will be just as thrilling and I look forward to seeing you there.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Poking An Elderly Relative With A Stick Day

It just so happens that today is the first Poking An Elderly Relative With A Stick day of the Spring. Now as Grand Old Uncle Stagnant is still refusing to come out from behind the chicken-intriguing shed, we will have no alternative but to use our bespoke antique Elderly-Relative poking stick. The marmalade has been applied to the first seven and 4/16th inches of the stick as tradition demands and we are just waiting for the all-clear from the veterinary surgery before we power up the turbo-hamsters so we can begin.

It is not a pretty sight extracting an elderly gentleman from the rear of an outbuilding. Especially this early in the spring when there is the ever-present danger of an unexpected frost to his nether-regions, but that is something that we are just going to have to deal with, if and when it does happen.

What makes it even more difficult is that Grand Old Uncle Stagnant has managed to manoeuvre himself into a position that makes the vast majority of his inner thighs inaccessible. This will - as you know - make applying the warm butter slightly more problematic than would otherwise be the case.

Of course, we could always try tempting him out with a bevy of the more nubile of this year's crop of hairstylists, but then we will run the risk of getting him over-excited. That could mean having to beat him around the ankles with rolled-up copies of the Little Frigging In The Wold Gleaner until he fully capitulates and his extraction enables him to then slink off to his kennel just behind the azalea beds.

So, this method may not be as quick as displaying the nubile hairstylists in his direction, but it does prevent him from becoming too over-excited and so it is - in the long run - much better for all of us. That is especially true for the more nervous of the nubile hairstylists who will demand several hot baths and a full manicure each before they feel able to put the trauma of a drooling and aroused Grand Old Uncle Stagnant taking himself in hand firmly from their minds.

Deep-Sea Perversions

Of course, being in the heart of rural England means that we here at Little Frigging do not have all that much call for deep-sea perversions, at least during the normal run of events. Such things as multi-porpoise lubricants, codpieces and squid restraints are not often discussed, even during the late night sessions down at The Pervert’s Appendage. That is, except when Old Feebletrousers brings his brother down to the pub for a swift half*. Old Feebletrouser’s brother, Expunge (or, Even Older Feebletrousers) ran away to sea when he was a lad of sixteen, after a rather unfortunate incident involving the vicar’s vestments and a young campanologist in the church bell tower one April afternoon in the early 1960s.

On his occasional visits back to the village - now the fuss about that incident has almost died down - Even Older Feebletrousers, now a retired sea captain, regales us with tales from his voyages to all the countries of the world (and Canada). Telling us, his rapt audience, of all the various perversions he has heard about, taken part in, and – on several occasions - made up on the spur of the moment when persuaded to take the third half* before closing time is ignored.

I must admit that I, for one, was highly sceptical about his tale of the mermaid, the angle-poise lamp and the bowl of cornflakes, at least until he produced the photographs. Even after that, Grand Old Uncle Stagnant still insists that it would be difficult – if not impossible – to perform such an act without – at least – a brace of suitably-lubricated sea scouts and a pickled onion.

 

*gallon

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Interesting Things Afoot

It is not often we get the chance to discuss the state of your gazelles, and whether they have recovered fully from their marmalade infestation, and today will be no exception. Frankly, I have more interesting things afoot.

So much afoot, in fact that they reach halfway up the thigh and fix to my obligatory black lace suspender belt, attaching to the other clasps that lie just past the outer edge of the fastenings for my bondage wellies. That is the advantage of the SAS-style suspender belt. Not only does it have the typical fasteners for use with stockings, it also has many other clasps for fastening not only a myriad of items of apparel, but also for various devices such as weasel lubricant, tuning fork, hands-free sex manuals, high-velocity sex spatulas and stun grenades.

People do sometimes mock me for my use of ex-armed forces erotica and fetish clothing, but to me it has the advantage of not only the many extra features needed for battlefield perversions, but also provision for adding the other miscellaneous tools, devices and extra apparel needed in today's high-intensity civilian sexual perversions.

True our grandfathers may have had to make do with a hand-cranked donkey and a half-empty jar of pickled onions. But, in today's technology-rich environment I see no reason not to take advantage of what is available to the discerning and imaginative pervert in order to enhance the intensity of the experience, or even just to prevent the onset of itchy knees at the crucial moment.

The First Orgies Of Spring

Now, as the open-air orgy season begins to start the commencement of its initial stages once again, as the inclement weather fades into the past, we in Little Frigging are preparing to gird our loins ready for the first early-morning orgies of spring.

Girding of one’s loins is – of course – essential for these, the first few spring early-morning orgies where the possibility of a late frost is always present. Frostbite of one’s particulars is always very nasty, as is also the possibility of the cold and damp ground of the village green having untoward effects upon other areas of one’s person that get exposed to it, such as knees and elbows. Hence the popularity of fetish knee and elbow pads, especially the ones with integral weasel-restraint attachment points.

There is also the less-serious but equally concomitant, danger of seasonal mud in the crevices, always a potential point of awkwardness when approaching the next putative partner, or partners, on one’s orgy card. Of course, seasoned* open-air orgy-goers are well used to these occurrences and you will find most people are quite forgiving of the odd grass or mud stain, as well as any other situations or little foibles (especially when the cold weather is having its usual effect on the male ardour) that may arise in the course of an early morning open-air orgy.

However, the cooler weather of the spring does mean that it is the ideal for those outdoor perversions that entail the type of clothing that is suited to cold or inclement weather. So, for those of you who find your ardour increasing at the thought of a duffle-coated Stock Control Assistant, or find yourself perking up when you envisage a lady in stout walking boots, or even a stout lady in ordinary walking boots, or find the thought of thermal underwear deeply alluring, then this could be the ideal time of year for you.

*Personally I prefer a light vinaigrette dressing with freshly-ground black pepper.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Quantitative Easing

There has been a fair amount of interest in the mainstream media over the last few weeks or so in the subject of Quantitative Easing. Now, for those of you who have not had the pleasure of grappling with this subject before, and are somewhat hazy about what it entails, Maureen has explained it to me (with the aid of some very expressive hand gestures), and so now – in turn – I can explain it to you.

Our village blacksmith, and volunteer fireman, Strom Thighhammer is the - very proud - possessor of one of these quantities in question, so much so, that he has to order special bespoke underwear in order for him to experience the comfort and security that us less fortunate males take for granted in the state of own nether-garmenting.

Now, it should not take too much imagination, especially amongst the ladies present, to realise that if one is fortunate to be the possessor of such above-average a quantity then it is incumbent upon one to exercise a certain amount of restraint. Especially over how one presents it to one’s partner, partners or putative partner or partners in any sexually-related dalliance one and one’s partner, or partners, are about to be engaged upon.

So, a thoughtful gentleman will always endeavour to ease his quantity towards the putative partner (or partners) in such a way that it doesn’t come as a complete shock to her, them, etc, forcing her to drop a stitch in her knitting. Or, even for them to stumble into and scatter the carefully stacked tinned goods across the supermarket aisle and disturbing the other shoppers as they go about their business.

Also, there is the problem of quantitative easing in a village hall orgy context, and just how much is polite? Of course, in the full orgy situation one’s putative partner may be otherwise engaged, for example a formal introduction may not always be possible as it is considered impolite to speak with one’s mouth full. Sometimes, in addition, it is not always entirely certain to whom various body parts belong, especially when people have been somewhat over-liberal with the oils and unguents. Therefore it is considered polite to be very slow, careful and gentle when easing in one’s quantity, especially any above average quantity, if only to avoid any sudden dangerous involuntary acts that may be caused by the too sudden introduction of a too large quantity all at once.

Road Accident

Last evening Grand Uncle Stagnant was slightly injured when the wheelbarrow in which he was being transported home from last nights All-Village Ladies’ Excuse Me village orgy was involved in an accident. The driver of the wheelbarrow, our local cake shop manageress Miss Fanny Knickerless apparently skidded on a damp patch just outside the door to the snug of The Pervert’s Appendage as she and Grand Uncle Stagnant were trying to enter the pub before the end of the post-orgy happy hour. It seems that Grand Uncle Stagnant was thrown from the overturning wheelbarrow and severely dented his ardour on the pub’s signpost. Miss Knickerless was, however, uninjured except for a slight bruising to her chocolate éclair.

Luckily, our village nurse, Pam Purring, was in the snug and with her expert ministrations, Grand Uncle Stagnant was soon upstanding once more, although his ardour seemed to have a slight incline towards widdershins. However, Pam Purring says that will soon right itself once he starts to take himself in hand again.

Our local policeman, PC Ghonnemadd was soon on the scene within less than a hour, but seeing that little remained to be done at the accident site he returned to his pint in the bar, muttering something about women wheelbarrow drivers. Unfortunately, however, the wheelbarrow was a total write-off… and the accident only damaged it even further beyond repair.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

The Mating Habits Of Wild Lawyers

Like most of their other activities, the breeding habits of lawyers are not best observed by those faint of heart (or – for that matter - those short of cash). For not only do the putative breeding pair of lawyers have to find a swamp fetid enough for their mating, they also have to ensure that both their scales of fees are mutually compatible. Furthermore, they both agree on the very detailed pre-nuptial agreement that both parties must sign before they begin to consider drawing up a final Deed of Copulation.

Then the female lawyer* makes a nest out of discarded writs and other legal documents, before awaiting the arrival of the male who performs a display of full litigation before her. Sometimes, this is not enough and the female lawyer has to charge the male a ‘finder’s fee’ before they can actually encage in the act.

Once the act has taken place, then both lawyers take turns sitting on the nest until someone phones up to complain how long it is taking, then – less than 7 months latter – the lawyer eggs hatch out into tadpoles.

*Such is the mystique and mystery surrounding these peculiar creatures that it took until the 20th Century before naturalists discovered there was such a thing as a female lawyer. Up until then it was assumed that the lawyer reproduced itself asexually in some manner – hence the historic collective name for a group of lawyers – ‘a bunch of wankers’.

Friday, April 17, 2009

The Secret Rites Of Folk Singers

Those of you who have heard the fearsome ululations of the wild folk singers when they manage to capture a feral banjo, wild guitar or bestial accordion will know the dread that creeps down the spine whenever in range of that unearthly cry. Not only that, the folk singers will then arrange amongst themselves certain secret rites they call ‘gigs’ – to which few outsiders have ever gained access and lived to tell the tale. At these ‘gigs’ – fuelled by copious quantities of a magical concoction called cider – the folk singers will stage a re-enactment of their successful hunts. Strapping the now-tamed banjo, guitar or bestial accordion to themselves they will perform stylised rituals of battle with it, where a male (or – sometimes – female*) folksinger wrestles with the now-cowed instrument, matching it howl for howl, wail for wail, until the final climactic moment when the instrument is defeated by the superior fighting abilities of the folk singer.

I, myself - being fortunate enough to be trusted by the folk singers - have been allowed access to these secret rituals. In fact, they seemed quietly (or as quiet as folk singers ever can be) impressed by my ability to consume their – usually deadly to outsiders – cider in quantities almost as copious as they themselves mange. For this, I have to thank those invaluable lessons learnt at a young age at the knee, and elbow, of Grand Old Uncle Stagnant.

In fact I have even – once – managed to witness a folk singer mating ritual where a male and female – after consuming enough cider to float a battleship - perform what the folksingers (often with a suggestive wink and leer) call a duet, where male and female wail in turn at the captured and cowed instrument until – finally - it admits defeat.

*The female folk singer is not, as some suggest, unbearded – such a mutant would not survive long in the fearsome folk singer tribes. No, the female folk singer is bearded, but only with a small goatee-type beard worn much further down the body.

In Pursuit of the Woman with the Feathered Hat

The government’s wilfully stupid outlawing of many traditional rural pursuits such as fox hunting, estate agent immolation, the intermarriage of close relatives, animal ‘husbandry’ and even the mooted banning of Poking an Elderly Relative with a Stick day, and government licensing restriction of Worldwide Admire Your Own Genitals Day, has meant that those rural pastimes that do survive have gained an extra piquancy, if not urgency, amongst their followers. For the adherents of such traditional rural pursuits are now not sure for how much longer their beloved pastime will be allowed to continue by this increasingly totalitarian administration.

One such rural pastime, The Pursuit of the Woman with the Feathered Hat, has found itself becoming – almost by default because of the limitations outlined above – the rural pursuit (literally, in this case) of the moment.

Despite many attempts by feminists to downplay the role – casting it as somehow degrading, retrograde or even an insult to womanhood itself – there is always a great deal of competition amongst the women in a competing village to be the one chosen to wear the much-coveted feathered hat. Many villages have a traditional hat, handed down from generation to generation and much prized by those fortunate enough to be selected to wear it.

The chosen woman is – by tradition – taken to a clearing in the woods just before sunset, where her handmaidens – taken from whatever virgins (or closet approximation thereof) are available for the task – remove all her clothes. They then bathe her in a nearby brook and then liberally coat her all over with the essential extra-virgin badger spleen oil, before placing the traditional feathered hat on her head.

They then join hands and perform the traditional ‘Dance Around The Handbags’, an ancient fertility dance that folklorists have traced back beyond even pagan times into the very origins of the human race, and one that can still be seen performed in dance halls, discos and clubs to this very day.

Meanwhile all the eligible bachelors (or closest approximation thereof) in the village gather in the bar of their local pub. There the bachelors play the traditional game of seeing who can avoid falling off their seat the longest.

Once the woman with the feathered hat is deemed to be ready for the pursuit by her hand maidens the adjudicator gets his horn out, ready to be blown by the woman in the hat.

Once the bachelors hear that the adjudicator’s horn has been blown by the woman in the hat, they immediately stumble into action and order another round. Eventually, the bachelors do find their way out of the pub and immediately try to remember which is the way to the woods.

Once the bachelors have successfully extricated most of their group from the duck pond they stagger off towards the woods. But, by now, the woman in the feathered hat is already making her way across field and dale in an attempt to evade her pursuers. The idea is for the woman to return to the village and get to the traditional Indian restaurant before her pursuers can sober up enough to find their own way to the Indian restaurant without being diverted from their pursuit by the traditional English Chinese Take-Away, or the traditional kebab shop.

By now, the exacting rigours of the chase will have reduced the number of eligible bachelors considerably. Some will have been lost in the duck pond. Some will even be chatting up the ducks. Some will be lost in the woods. Some will be unconscious in those same woods rendered so by high-speed impacts with trees and so forth in the now almost-total darkness. Some will have been mollified by the items on the menu choices offered by either the Chinese Take-Away or the kebab shop (in some cases by both*). Most, in the Great British Traditional Way, will have decided they can’t be arsed and will have returned to the pub.

However, there will now by three or four of the pursuers, mud-splattered, bedraggled, possibly even bloodied or carrying a semi-masticated kebab will have made it to the Indian restaurant. This is where they will then engage in the traditional argument over how many of them there are, and whether they actually – now that they come to think of it – actually fancy a curry at all, or if there is a danger of Missing The Footy On The Telly**

Once this discussion has reached a satisfactory conclusion, there will be only a couple of the pursuers still conscious and on their feet (more or less).

The two finalists will then enter the restaurant where they will engage in the traditional personal combat by ordeal, each ordering the hottest vindaloo the restaurant’s chef can make. Facing each other over their plates, both know there will only be one winner of this trial. They will then begin to eat until one of them can take no more and collapses face-down into the remains of his curry.

The winner of the trial by vindaloo, will then stagger across to the table occupied by the woman in the feathered hat who is now about to pay her bill. She will then greet him with the traditional greeting: ‘Where the bloody hell have you been? Don’t you realise the time? Well, you can just bugger off, typical bloody man. I’m going home!’ Then with the traditional finale to the pursuit of a rousing proclamation of ‘Men, you’re all the bloody same!’ the woman in the feathered hat will stalk proudly and triumphantly from the Indian restaurant with the cheers of the other patrons and the staff ringing in her ears. The woman in the feathered hat will then go back to her place with her handmaidens, where they will spend the rest of the evening eating chocolate, drinking wine and lewdly dismissing the many shortcomings (as it were) of all the men in the village and how they are better off without them.

*These poor saps can be seen wandering backwards and forwards between the Chinese Take-Away and the kebab shop, unable to make a choice between the items offered on the respective menus, for most of the rest of the night. Usually they are taken in hand by the Woman in the Feathered Hat’s handmaidens (hence the name) around the back of the take-away to enable them to come to some sort of conclusion should they be up to it.

**An ancient – but still terrible and powerful curse – that will render anyone afflicted by it unable to have any meaningful conversations with friends, workmates and the lads down the pub for several days, or until there is next any football on the TV, whichever is the sooner.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Role-Models And Mentors

Putting aside all this rather superficial piffle about youngsters needing role models* I did learn much of what I know of the rural, and perverse, arts from Grand Old Uncle Stagnant. These days he may be regarded as a semi-mobile collection of rather unusual scents and smells and a habitation for some rather exotic fungal growths, but back then, he was a rather dashing young man who made many a thigh quiver in anticipation as he strode manfully into the village hall on orgy nights.

Anyway, it was he, grand Old Uncle Stagnant who taught me about the different breeds of birds, both the small brown ones and the ones that are not the small brown ones. He taught me how to recognise the subtle differences between ramblers and orienteers (check for the telltale compass) and how to fleece money off them and off other tourists too.

Of course, he taught me how to procure badgers, and the secrets of chicken-intriguing as well as how to grout wallabies and the secret Masonic way of tying on your wallaby-grouting apron.

It was Grand Old Uncle Stagnant too, who gave me my first brace of breeding hairstylists, even though my parents considered me far too young to take on such an onerous responsibility. ‘Why the lad’s barely started wanking, and you’m already giving him hairstylists. Paah!’ my father opined dismissively on that one memorable day he sobered up enough to notice his surroundings.

Even, yes, it was indeed Grand Old Uncle Stagnant, one late spring evening up on Torhillmountrisebank Hill, who showed me the true delight a man can experience in the company of his sheep flock.

Yes, I owe a great debt of gratitude to Grand Old Uncle Stagnant. For without his advice and wisdom I would not be half the man, a Hairstylist breeder, or the proud upstanding pervert I am today.

 

*Rather, what they need is the wisdom to see that all adults are flawed, imperfect, but most do try to be good and do their best, and that true humanity comes from developing internally, not slavishly following others, especially those that only have the superficial trappings of material success.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Ladies' Night

It is Ladies' Night in the Little-Frigging-In-The-Wold village hall this evening. So, as usual, all the ladies of Little Frigging will gather together in the village hall to discuss womanly things. Such things as knitting, cake baking and comparing the various merits and efficacy of a variety of sexual and marital aids brought along by our village nurse Pam Purring, who is also the local sales rep for Splodge & Sons (Purveyors of Marital and Sexual aids to the gentry since 1789).

As it was such a success at last year's Ladies' Night, the ladies have formally requested that our local blacksmith, Strom Thighhammer, repeat his cabaret performance to round the evening off.

Although, as the village council representative responsible for entertainments in the village hall, I have acceded to their request, it is with one proviso. I have made a strongly-worded request that the ladies do their utmost to refrain from - in any way - damaging Strom's volunteer village fireman outfit.

Last year, after his - by all accounts - stupendous performance, Strom's uniform was shredded way beyond repair by the enthusiastic response from the ladies in his audience. Strom himself had - apparently - to be carried home by four of the most enthusiastic ladies. They kept him there - confined to his bed - for the five days following the evening's event. Each lady in the village selflessly taking a turn ministering to him as he lay there bed-ridden, until they were all fully satisfied he could return to work.

Although, it must have taken quite a lot out of him. As Strom later confessed, he hardly had the strength to raise his hammer for at least a fortnight after his performance for the ladies.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Splodge & sons Sex Aids Spring 2009 Catalogue

I have, this very morning, received a press release in which Splodge & Sons (Purveyors of Marital and Sexual aids to the gentry since 1789) are pleased to announce their new range of sexual aids for Spring 2009. Not only do they have a whole new range of Eco-friendly sex aids, building on their previous range, they have also updated their best selling Throbbing Weasel 90000, which, as you probably know, is modelled on our very own Little Frigging In The Wold blacksmith, and volunteer fireman, Strom Thighhammer. The Throbbing Weasel now has a brand-new Hyper-Naughtiness setting, which according to the catalogue – gives you that special feeling, as though a whole shift of firemen are engaged in bringing you to the peak of erotic fulfilment.

Not only that, Splodge & sons, have also recently diversified into far more specialised sexual aids, fetish gear and erotic gadgetry. I – for one – found my eye drawn to their new range of wallaby grouting implements, mittens, thigh boots and aprons – which I’m sure many of my erstwhile readers will also find deeply stimulating. Especially, as now the full-colour illustrated catalogue does show many of the devices, clothing and so forth utilized in various stances by the attractive models simulating the real-life erotic possibilities of Splodge and Sons wide range of goods.

For instance, the Structural engineer, the naughty lady erotically fondling a protractor and the suitably bedecked lamppost on page 123 is a splendid example of the artistry that has gone into this excellent new catalogue. I would also like to direct those for whom the sight of a cake shop manageress expertly enjoying the delights of a fresh cream horn whilst in the company of an erotically be-spannered plumber is especially stimulating, to the last seven pages of the catalogue. This is where you will find such a scene has been re-enacted right down to the finest detailing on the stockbroker’s peep-hole shin pads.

I cannot recommend this new spring catalogue highly enough. Furthermore, those of you who have availed yourselves of the services of Splodge & Sons transportation wheelbarrow service for those who have found themselves overcome at a village orgy will know full well the quality of service provide by this erstwhile company. Therefore, you can order from the catalogue will full confidence of a speedy, reliable and discreet service at all times.

Monday, April 13, 2009

The Great High Order of the Noble Wallaby Grouters

The Lord High Chief Baster of the Ceremonial Marmosets is resplendent in his high-visibility yellow stockings, suspender belt, and highly-polished green wellies. His sequin encrusted cape bearing the signs and signals of the Great High Order of the Noble Wallaby Grouters is draped across his otherwise naked shoulders as he holds the ceremonial wallaby grouting implements first high into the air, and then places them in their precise allocated spaces on the High Altar.

Then taking the catalogue from the magazine rack he begins to intone the day’s lesson from the Most Holy Book of Argos, before moving to the pulpit where he utilises the catalogue as the text for his sermon discussing the various merits of the toasters offered for sale by the Holy Argos.

Then we all sing the praises of the very latest female celebrity caught on photograph without the appropriate underwear for an evening out on the town, before we retire to the disrobing room to watch football on the telly.

Later we use the half-time break to concoct stories of charitable doings in order to mollify any post-ceremonial spousal interrogation as to our whereabouts on an otherwise free evening that would have been better suited to the completion of the household tasks she had helpfully suggested we undertake in the near future.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Peer-Reviewed Perversions

Empirically-verifiable fondling of a social worker in a village hall orgy context has always been problematical. There are times when peer-reviewed perversions can become difficult, if not socially maladroit. The orgy situation is – of course – a prime example of such a situation. This is why it is considered very impolite to break off from proceedings, say in the middle of orally stimulating a cake shop manageress, or oiling a small furry mammal of your choice, in order to fill-in the necessary details on one’s orgy card.

However, these days we discover that one now has to complete the necessary questionnaire given out at the start of the orgy by the village council’s representative to ensure that the orgy meets the exacting diversity standards set out by the government. For the government now seems to believe that rural sexual perversions are not racially, ethnically or religiously diverse enough to ensure that they are representative of the ethnic population as a whole. This is despite the fact that if you go back far enough into the records – about two or three generations in the main – you will discover that the overwhelming majority of Little Frigging denizens are – in that great and noble rural tradition – closely related to one another*.

 

*Very closely in the case of Grand Uncle Stagnant – who not only happens to be his own brother, but he is also – apparently – his mother’s great aunt as well.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Free Range Hairstylists

Perhaps it is one of those days. Then again, perhaps it isn’t. It is often quite hard to tell without lifting the day up and reading what is printed on the underside of it. Anyway, be that as it may, and it probably will be, until proved otherwise, it in now time to get on with preparing for the brand new Spring that is almost upon us.

After doing a full survey of the Upper Lower pasture, we will have Old Feebletrousers give it the once over with his Feral Banjo Detecting Divining Rod. It is not a pretty sight, having Old Feebletrousers striding towards you over an open pasture with his rod twitching eagerly in his hand. So, I will have to make sure that Maureen has rounded up any errant Free-Range Hairstylists wandering around near the pasture and put them, temporarily, in the North Tupping Shed.

Once Old Feebletrousers has guaranteed the pasture is free of any traces of feral banjos, and when we have checked the pasture is free of wild accordion spoor, we will begin the laborious process of moving the free-range hairstylists down into the Upper Lower pasture.

Herding hairstylists is - of course – never easy, as any bright shiny object so easily distracts them. As you know hairstylists are seemingly obsessed with glossy magazines, so that if you happen – by mistake – to wander into any hairstylist den, or ‘salon’ as it is sometimes known, you will almost immediately encounter whole piles of glossy magazines.

Some of these glossy magazines have developed a special and unique symbiotic relationship with hairstylists and are, consequently, never seen outside of hairstylist dens. Which is – I suppose – quite lucky really as they usually contain a slew of articles so brain-numbingly dull that they make the prospect of encountering the comparative intellectual rigours of daytime TV an almost tempting alternative.

Anyway, once the ground in the Upper Lower pasture is no longer too muddy for their delicate high-heels then we will begin herding the hairstylists down there so they can spend the pre-holiday months of their summer in comparative luxury.

Friday, April 10, 2009

Naked Chiropodists And Wallaby Grouting

‘Anyway, these she was, naked and poised, with the wallaby in her left hand and her favourite grouting tool clasped firmly between her succulent thighs. Immediately I reached for my Etch-a-Sketch to capture the moment for posterity. However, the moon disappeared behind a cloud and the moment was gone… forever. I knew that I had missed my chance and regretted it profoundly.’ (William Wordsworth – Diaries: June 23rd, 1820)

In nature-watching circles, the act of a naked chiropodist grouting a wallaby by moonlight is – as you know – still widely disputed. Many have claimed to have witnessed the act, but no, genuine and verifiable pictures have ever been produced.

There is the famous drawing by Bicuspid Stovepipe, made in the Bilston forest in 1768, of what he claimed to be several recently-qualified naked female chiropodists, each with a wallaby and a grouter, poised for action. However, most scholars these days put this down to either wishful-thinking on Stovepipe’s part, or his over-indulgence in mind-altering stick-whittling earlier in the same evening.

Then there are the hazy blurred photographs of recent years. Pictures we have all grown tired of seeing on the many, many, TV programmes that have claimed to reveal the ‘truth’ - once and for all - about naked chiropodists engaging in wallaby grouting. The most famous one – known as ‘The Redditch Ring Road Chiropodist’ - purportedly shows a full-frontal naked chiropodist grouting a brace of prime wallabies. However, using sophisticated image enhancement techniques this was revealed to be a forgery over a decade ago. It is actually a photograph of a naked librarian painting double yellow lines down a stockbroker in a fully-consensual act which, while not an officially recognised perversion or fetish, need not detain us any longer.

The other most-widely seen photograph – ‘The Wolverhampton Wallaby-Grouter’ – does indeed show a naked chiropodist busy grouting, but the animal clutched so firmly in her grouting gloves is in the un-doctored original photograph – as usual – merely a marmoset.

Therefore, despite Wordsworth’s claim, until credible and irrefutable documentary evidence exists the ‘naked chiropodist grouting a wallaby’ will have to remain firmly in the realms of folklore.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Surreptitious Investigations And Waterfowl

Tickle your grebe and place it on the mantelpiece. Then, while you have the attention of the marital aid engineers distracted by the very precarious positioning of the mantelpiece ensconced giggling waterfowl, you can make your way past the vicar and the pastry chef in bondage, and then slip out of the back door of the village hall. You can then catch the bus back to Little Frigging without anyone suspecting that you are indeed engaged upon any surreptitious investigations into the readiness or otherwise of the Tupping-on-the-Marsh Inter-Village Orgy squad as their team readies itself for next weekend’s all-important fixture.

Classicists amongst you will now be smiling the quietly confident smile of the smug know-it-all. For such scholars will, of course, be very familiar with the use of giggling waterfowl as a diversionary aid from their studies of the Punic wars. Others of you (both) will no doubt be aware (will varying degrees of vagueness) of the story of Hannibal and his elephants from the second Punic war era. However, few of you will be as aware as the classic scholars should be of the way Hannibal’s forbear, Steve, used the subterfuge of placing a giggling coot slightly to the left of some ornamental wainscoting as a way of enabling his escape from a Roman patrol. Steve was just inside a Carthaginian fish and chip shop, ordering the vital fish and chips necessary for the Carthaginian army to continue its struggle against the Romans when he spied the patrol approaching, discussing the merits of the local saveloys. Quickly, Steve took his coot from his distraction waterfowl quiver and placed it on the wainscoting in such a prominent location that the Roman soldiers would be unable to miss it. Steve then set the bird giggling and quickly made his escape.

Some of you may be surprised that we would go to such lengths to discover the Inter-Village Orgy match tactics of another team. However, these days with TV sports channels paying increasingly large fees for exclusive rights to the live coverage of matches, and the all-important residuals from the DVD sales, these days there is a great deal of money resting on the results of a match and the all-important resulting league placings.

Therefore, as our new undercover operatives I would strongly suggest you take to heart all that I have told you above and bear it in mind when you are sent out into the field for this your first – and, hopefully, not your last - mission.

Oh, and on your way past, if you wouldn’t mind, on the Tupping-on-the-Marsh village green you’ll find the probably still-smouldering remains of the wickerman cage that contained – albeit only briefly – our previous undercover operative. So, if you could just place this bunch of flowers there as a small act of remembrance… well, I mean, it is the least we can do.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

The Scented Allotment

Toast Stoataffronter is now not really one of the most famous of people. After all, neither you nor I have ever heard of him before. However, I have discovered just how famous – or, rather, infamous - he became during the Victorian era and its immediate aftermath, and that is only because I discovered his Secret Diary whilst rummaging through a box taken down from Grand Uncle Stagnant’s old attic.

It was fairly obvious that the aforesaid attic had not had a good rummage through for many a year, possibly even by Grand Uncle Stagnant himself. The old steamer trunk in which I discovered the diary was itself buried under a large collection of bound copies of Hansard dating back to long before anything interesting happened. Therefore, it was fairly likely that no-one in their right mind, or even standing in a field reasonably adjacent to their right mind, would have shown any interest in exploring further beneath those items without the risk of death from sheer tedium.

Anyway, a cursory glance at one of the many volumes of Stoataffronter’s diaries showed him to be one of the 19th century’s most prolific ‘intimate’ diarists. These 349 volumes, show just what a prolific pervert even the young Stoataffronter managed to be, and how he continued refining his techniques of advanced sexual experimentation right through to his old age.

A young Victorian gentleman’s first encounters with the perverted arts were usually at public school, normally when the sexually-curious adolescent boys got together in the dormitories at night to practice mutual sex spatula manipulation, often despite – or, maybe even because of – the stern warnings of the dire dangers of over-frequent solo sex spatula manipulations that emanated from the Victorian pulpit.

A few years later though, Stoataffronter was sent down from Oxford University when he was – scandalously for the time - discovered naked in his rooms with the custard-ensmeared wife of the university rector and a rather indignant mute swan.

Therefore, considered even too perverse to join the clergy like other disgraced young scions of the Victorian middle classes, young Stoataffronter set off to try to redeem himself, and – if possible – earn his fortune in the farthest reaches of the British Empire. But, only two years later having failed to make his mark in Wolverhampton, Stoataffronter set off for foreign shores.

It was while deep in the wilderness of North Canada that Stoataffronter first realised his true vocation, when he discovered that the indigenous natives of the area used seal oils as lubrication for their more unusual perversions (i.e. the ones that did not utilize furs and/or snow). Here, for the first time in his life, he became aware of such local deviations as the fully-consensual oiling of a fisherman’s wife in front of a fire.

After his deportation from Canada, for attempting to coat an undercover mounted policeman in lukewarm custard, Stoataffronter set off for the Middle East.

Stoataffronter spent many years in the Middle East, perfecting his understanding of the perverted arts. Here he was considerably helped by his translation of two of the finest examples of middle-eastern perversion studies, The Scented Allotment and, most famously, The Karma Intenance Manual. Both of which examine in detail, with several helpful numbered diagrams, in the case of The Scented Allotment the Arabian approach to perversion and, in the case of The Karma Intenance Manual, the Indian approach to the rude and naughty.

For example, The Scented Allotment is more concerned with vegetable-related perversions such as the infamous Courgette Undertaking, which was roundly denounced in newspaper editorials when Stoataffronter’s translation of the book was published in London. In fact, so scandalised was Victorian Britain by the frank and open way the book discussed the use of vinaigrette dressing on one’s concubines that it was immediately banned – and therefore surreptitious under-the-counter sales went through the roof (as it were),thus making Stoataffronter a very rich man indeed. The book also introduced to Europe, the use of exotically-scented unguents to the repertoire of the dedicated orgy-goer, as well as the use of the radish when entertaining a Member of Parliament or certain commissioned ranks of the Household Cavalry.

The Karma Intenance Manual however, as more fitting a desert-based nomadic civilisation was more concerned with how to utilise the date or the fig in an erotic context, as well as several tent-based perversions, such as the Groundsheet Surprise, as well as – all-important for a nomadic people – how to secure a postmistress to a camel.

As time passed and Victorian society became more comfortable with its own understating of the perverted arts, and how they must underpin any great society, Stoataffronter became welcome once again in his own country. He returned to Britain at the age of 63, worn and spent from his many years of studying the perverted arts at both theoretical and practical levels.

He spent the remaining years of his retirement studying certain experimental deviations in his country cottage on the outskirts of Tipton.

Stoataffronter died – at the age of 87 – when his beard was caught under a brace of overly-buttered kitchen maids and he, consequently, choked to death on his own excessively-extravagant whiskers. Unfortunately, he was soon forgotten as the Victorian period faded into the past and the Victorian attitude to the perverted arts became little more than a footnote of history.

However, I believe that the immanent posthumous publication of Stoataffronter’s Secret Diaries will make me a very rich man return this great Victorian and eminent scholar of the perverted arts from around the world to his proper place at the centre of any full understanding of the perverted arts in all their glory.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Adult Education And Perversion

It sometimes happens that those who do not normally engage in the fully deviational lifestyle as a matter of habit* sometimes – just out of curiosity – feel they would like to try, sample or experience certain aspects of the perverted arts.

There is nothing wrong with this, even though those of us who have been perverts of long standing will – of course – tend to look askance upon anyone who does not fully appreciate the full aesthetic rigours and delights of the perverted lifestyle. However, for those who are not as familiar as those of us who gather here regularly for mutual edification (followed by fresh cream cakes and a nice cup of tea), the perverted life can seem bewilderingly complex.

Just by way of example, there are the vast array of traffic wardens, small furry mammals, tupping sheds, bondage restraints, the full and frank indulgence in double-entry bookkeeping, chicken-intriguing stances. These and many other forms of moist and naughty doings and activities feature only ever rarely - and then often only vaguely alluded to - in the Sunday Supplement magazines and lifestyle TV shows that are, these days, the main forms of edification for the general populace.

Of course, back in the days of yore (and mine), it was possible for those feeling they may have a perverted bent, or even those who just fancied feeling a pervert, to go along to their local adult education emporium and sign up for an evening class or two. Such things as: Traffic Warden Arranging, Introductory Nude Cream Cake Misuse, All Nude Chicken-Intriguing, stroking the underside of a double-glazing salesman and how to butter a librarian were all taught by, if not a local pervert of many years standing, at least someone who had seen a few pictures in a specialist magazine and had a fairly active imagination.

These days, though, government cutbacks and the changing lifestyles of the populace means that such Adult Education courses are now on the wane. This is – to (what remains of) my mind – a great pity. Some day in the not too distant future, by way of example, the All-England Lawn Perversions Association will be looking for the next generation of its International Orgy Squad, and there will be no-one even capable of attaching the ankle-restraints to a lightly-buttered social worker. But, by then it will be too late, and all of this hard-won expertise will have been lost.

*Or, indeed, in many other forms of clerical-style fetish gear, such as the surplice, dog collar or wimple. Or, for the adept, the God hat and God-Bothering stick as illustrated below.

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Monday, April 6, 2009

Little Frigging Amateur Dramatics Society Present:

So… well, there you have it. Or, if you prefer, just over there, slightly more to the left of widdershins, you have it.

Now, well….

Ah….

I don't know what to say, but that has never stopped me before. So, now we are all here, our intercourse can resume.

Let us begin with some news from the arts world. Nowadays, the Little-Frigging-In-The-Wold Amateur Dramatics Society is going from strength to strength, or so it seems to me.

Their last production - a stage version of Debbie Does Dallas cunningly re-titled Doris Does Droitwich - receive great critical notices, e.g. 'a triumph of the pornographic arts on the live stage' - The LFITW Gleaner. 'Absolute filth! I loved every minute of it' - The Lower Crotchstaine Gazette.

So, now, everyone is enjoying the new production of Swedish plumbers On The Job, in a version for the stage adapted by my own fair hand. Advance ticket sales strongly suggest that it is heading for a record-breaking 4 month run at the Little Frigging Village Hall.

We are also struggling to keep up demand for the live recording DVD (with bonus disc featuring extended outtakes of Miss Entanglements (from the Post Office) and the entire membership of the rugby club enjoying each others' company on a village hall stage two feet deep in fresh home-made custard. (Unfortunately, the scene with the forced rhubarb had to be deleted after several people, apparently, fainted while viewing it without full elbow support.)

So, all in all, it all bodes well for this year's panto: Wood In The Babes which will - all being well - go into casting in late September.

Saturday, April 4, 2009

A Savage Flock Of Bestial Accordions

Well, it never ever really seems like the right time for anything to perturb your flock of breeding lawyers, but soon the lawyer mating season will be on us once again. Therefore, we have no real choice, but to get the glossy magazines out again.

Still, we do now have all the wind-powered weasels in their sties, ready for when the hunt begins. All winter there has been talk of at least a brace, and maybe even a whole herd, of feral accordions at large in the big wood down in the valley. We have seen some seriously wounded undomesticated estate agents, and a few wild hairdressers with post-accordion trauma, that have managed to escape alive from those woods. Their wounds bear all the telltale signs of attack by feral accordions with the marks made by the keys of these savage beasts clearly visible.

Of course, we have to hope that the accordions stay in the woods and don't come out to prowl around the breeding lawyer pens at this delicate time of the year. If the breeding lawyers are perturbed at the wrong time, especially by a savage flock of bestial accordions then the whole breeding season could be lost. As they only come into season once every five years, you can see the devastating consequences for yourselves. Breeding lawyers are not easy to mate at the best of times, making captive pandas look like publicity-hungry c-list celebrities in their sexual antics.

So, all in all, a busy and stressful time of year for us rural folk.

Friday, April 3, 2009

Shared Misgivings

Well, once you have fully greased the underside of you stock-control assistant, then there is little to stop you attaching the cowbell to the suitably-restrained geography supply teacher. Of course, not all the custard will be needed at this point, providing you have the radishes as close to room temperature as the season allows.

Now, there are those amongst you gathered here this morning who will feel that – as a perversion – this lacks something of the subtlety that us deviants of the first water would associate with show-level perversions. Indeed, I share your misgivings (as long as Miss Givings is willing, of course). I must admit that I was very disappointed with the demonstration perversions at this year’s Pervert of the Year Show, myself.

However, I wouldn’t want you to think for a moment that this is in any way a manifestation of pique on my part. Nor would I wish you to believe I have taken umbrage at the fact that this year the Pervert of the Year Show – for reasons known only to the show’s organisers - is taking place at the Lower Crotchstaine Millennium Exhibition Tupping Sheds, and not as for the last 15 years running at the Little Frigging Village Hall. I would not be one to cast aspersions - not without a good tailwind, anyway – but I have heard rumours about certain favours being requested and certain photographs of a compromising nature being exchanged between the organisers of the Pervert of the Year Show and the Lower Crotchstaine village council.

If these allegations are in any way true then a seriously dark shadow will have been cast over the usually up-front, squeakily-clean (especially in respect of the leather fetish gear) and morally-upstanding world of perversion. We cannot, we must not, allow our noble calling to be tarnished in ay way by allegations of this nature. There is nothing dirty, sordid or squalid about rural perversions (unless that is your thing, of course, after all we have all fantasised about traffic wardens wrestling in mud, haven’t we?) and anything that brings such a noble calling into disrepute should be stamped out forthwith. Any such dubious practices should be eradicated with all the powers available to the Royal and Noble Order of Perverts and Deviants who oversee and maintain the high standards of the calling. A sound horsewhipping would – indeed - be too good for them, especially if they were into that sort of thing. Prison too, would be something of a soft option, especially for those taking a delight in bondage and other forms of restraint.

So, it would seem that if these allegations are true and the guilty are to be punished, then the only option will be to have the miscreants press-ganged into Estate Agency, where they can serve out their remaining days in the most pitiful condition known to man.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

On Receiving One’s First Brace of Sex Spatulas

The first time a putative young pervert first gets his or her hands on their very first set of sex spatulas can be a very heady (if they are very lucky) experience indeed. Of course, they are unlikely to be the fully bespoke sex spatulas of their very own, tooled and shaped just so they seem to become extensions of their wielders own hands, of the type that those of us fortunate enough to be perverts of many years standing possess.

I suppose the more experienced of us here can afford to smile indulgently as we recall our instructors – sometimes at the point of exasperation – imploring us to be at one with our sex spatulas despairing that we would ever learn how to ‘feel the fondle’. We could also recall all those hours, alone in our teenage bedrooms, practising solo sex spatula self-manipulation until our wrists were too sore to carry on and we collapsed fully-drained onto our beds, totally spent.

Then there was the hesitant shy nervousness of being with someone for the first time, as we tentatively built up the nerve to show each other our sex spatulas and together stumbled through our first fully-consensual manipulations.

I always remember my first time and the amount of concentration I put into my manipulations, eager to impress my equally shy and nervous new partner. I remember concentrating so hard that I was shocked into immobility, with my spatulas poised above the naked young body of my partner, by the audience breaking out into a spontaneous round of applause when they saw how I had mastered the sometimes tricky back-handed grip necessary for the underarm self-basting manoeuvre. I managed to recover my composure though, once the audience had settled themselves again, but not quite quickly enough for the judges to give me the full marks for the manoeuvre that my tutor later said she had expected.

Still, though, I did pass the test and get my Ordinary Level Applied Perversions Certificate Grade One, which allowed me to put my name down for my first-ever post-teenage orgy in the Little Frigging village hall that following autumn term.

Oh, happy days.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Youthful Erections

As it happens the moistness or otherwise of a small furry mammal matters little when trying to bring it up to full operating temperature. You may feel that such a nugget of information would be of little use as you transverse this life towards its ultimate and unavoidable end, and you would be right. That is why I suggest you immediately forget it, and instead concentrate on finding information that you will find beneficial as you go about doing what you normally go about doing. That is, of course, unless you normally go about collecting useless information, in which case the aforesaid small animal moistness will no doubt be of significance to you.

Now, moving on, perhaps we can find something of interest over in this other bucket across the other side of the tupping shed from where the moist furry mammals are coming up to temperature.

Ah….

Now, there are not many people who fully appreciate the subtle delights that a bucket full of assorted nuts, bolts, washers and grommets can bring to those of a more adventurous cast of mind, especially in the field (or in this case, the Tupping Shed) of perversions. Now, those who were young boys in the days of yore will not need me to tell them of the erotic delights of metalwork. That is, especially those who liked to secrete themselves in their bedroom during their childhood years in order to play with their very own erector set. For there is many a man of a certain age who can trace his now mature love of screwing back to those first tentative grapplings and gropings with his Meccano set.

It is fascinating how those youthful pastimes prepare us for adulthood. For example, it was in those first flushes of youthful exuberance that we learnt to take a firm grip on our tools as we studied the requisite literature, a talent that a man will need and use throughout his lifetime. We learn the importance of adequate lubrication, and how to be careful when twisting our nuts, as well as the correct direction in which to screw, of course, and many, many lessons that will hold us in good stead as we continue on life’s journey, including life’s most important lesson, never let your tool get rusty.