Friday, February 26, 2010

Bring Your Games From Home Day

So, after only a fortnight of frantic string collection recalibration, you should be able to acquire access to the lug nuts that keep your codpiece firmly affixed to the suspender belt of your choice. Failing that, you ought to, at least, seriously consider taking out fully comprehensive anti-banjo insurance, if only for the up-coming* spring months.

Taking all that as read, let us move on towards outlining the business for today. Now, let me see….

Ah, there doesn't seem to be any business for today. So, if any of you have brought any games in with you, then you will be allowed to play them.


That is, of course, as long as they do not cause too much noise and any excessive cruelty to any elderly relatives you may also have about your person or in the close vicinity. Poking An Elderly Relative With A Stick Day is now long over, so you no longer have any excuse at all to be unnecessarily cruel or nasty to your elderly relatives, as you will then stand a chance of being disbarred from next year's event. And, as next year's Poking An Elderly Relative With A Stick Day is the bicentenary, special freestyle Crouching Stockbroker, Hidden Spatula event, it is one no-one in their right mind would want to risk disqualification.

So, while you all get on with that, then, I will get on with marking this year's final Water Vole Perplexation exams ready for the beginning of next term.


*And we all hope that you do.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Badger-Oiling Thong And Spats

Well, as they say, 'You can't oil a badger without wearing your badger-oiling thong and spats'. So, as those items are still in the wash, I'll have to do something else this fine morning.


It doesn't really feel liker winter is quite over yet yet, despite the frantic nest-building of the hairstylists and the feral banjos tuning up for the mating season down in the woods. Every now and then you can hear the distant sound of duelling banjos as the male banjos fight it out for dominance and the consequent right to mate with as many female banjos as possible.

So, only too soon the summer will be here, the World Cup is immanent, and - more importantly - The Proms are drawing ever closer. This means that all-too-soon it will be the time of year for complaining that 'it's too hot for me'. This is - usually - the signal for Maureen to give up on clothes altogether, which certainly does help make the weekly Little-Frigging-In-The-Wold Parish council meetings far more interesting, especially when we break for tea, cream cakes and oral stimulation later in the evening.

Anyway, I'd better crack on; it looks as though it will be a long day, especially as we have to put the whole herd of lawyers through the lawyer dip in order to prevent an outbreak of injunctions. This can be a significant danger, especially in this very slightly warmer weather as the winter, at long last, begins to fade.

So, I'll say 'toodle-pip'.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010


Now, here we stand right on the very cusp of the edge of the thing we are standing on.

Most impressive, don't you think?



Right… I see….

Ah, well... perhaps it takes a certain kind of mind... one that is more attune to the erotic possibilities inherent in the gorse bush to fully appreciate....

Well... no matter, let us move swiftly on.


No, let us go back to the gorse bush.

No, don't be silly, just a pair of sheer black stockings and a suspender belt with – I must say – a rather fetching pair of green wellies is more than enough protective clothing, especially for a man of your standing. There is no need to be overly concerned about your standing either, as we enter the gorse, as at this time of the year it is little more than knee height.

Of course, you will need to take a firm grasp of your predicament as you enter. It is merely a case of mind over matter. A few drops of blood and some minor scarring are but a small price to pay in order to become an adept at this – one of the most testing, but ultimately satisfying of the perverse arts.

Off you go, then….

I’ll just wait here and check through the contents of the First Aid box while you get on with it.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

String Collecting – An Addiction?

But hold… and squeeze gently, Maureen.

It is time for the annual string assortment audit in the Little Frigging village hall. It is one of the high spots of the rural year, when the whole village and many from the surrounding environs gather together on an February evening to show the enthralled multitudes congregated there their own string collections and - in turn – to stand in rapt admiration as others reveal their own string collections to them.


Usually, not only does this feature on the front page of the LFITW Gleaner, but these days the editor, Foaming Lickspittle himself, has decided such a momentous local event should have its own pull-out and keep souvenir special. For fascinating and informative articles on this most splendid hobby can – at least - easily fill half a dozen pages. Although, hobby is a word that doesn’t quite do it justice. For those bitten by the bug of string collecting – and let’s be honest here – who wouldn’t be – it is more of an obsession.

String is such a fascinating thing in itself, but once you begin to see – and understand – the many different varieties, types, sorts and even lengths that string can come in, from the smooth, shiny, almost silk-like to the big thick rough and hairy that is almost a rope in everything but name. In addition, with all the infinite varieties between, it is no wonder that string collection can almost become an addiction.

Monday, February 22, 2010

A Stick

Here we are now. So, what do you think of that Then?

No, not that…. This?


No, it is not just an ordinary stick. This is… this is an authentic hairstylist herder's Stick. It is mainly used to separate the hairstylists from the shampoo and conditioner if they seem to be getting over-excited by the wide range of available products, and they start to babble drivel and nonsense like those very hairstyling product adverts that infest the advertising breaks of commercial television like a head lice epidemic in an infant school.

The special attachment on the Stick, that to the untrained eye looks rather like an inexpertly lopped branch, about 7.1982 inches from the top (or Other End as it is known to the cognoscenti) is an essential part of the hairstylist herder's Stick. It is used to pry curlers out of the grasp of unwilling hairstylists who may be - in their typical naïve way - planning something dangerous or disruptive, it is also used for moving perming materials out of the reach of any over-stimulated hairstylist. It may all sound harmless, but remember the untold damage caused by that sudden uncontrollable and highly contagious bubble perm outbreak of the late 70s/early 80s. It spread like wildfire from footballers - notably prone to unfortunate hairstylings (possibly due to some genetic weakness in the footballing breed) - through glam rock popsters and out into the public at large.

Fortunately, the epidemic has now been brought under control, even in Liverpool, but the danger still remains. So vigilance in these matters is still of the utmost importance. Hence, the value - even in these technological times - of the hairstylist herder's Stick.

Friday, February 19, 2010

The Ritual of Ensmearment


Now, as you well know, today is the first Friday after Trilobite Organising Eve, so I hope you have all remembered to number your scones in ASCENDING order and, only then, placed them at the necessary cardinal points of the compass in readiness.

So, now you will have the protractor in your left hand and the booklet of Logarithmic Tables tied with the blue ribbon to your left knee. Oh, and your clothes must go on the pile near the door, next to mine.


Right, now we can begin.

Just wait a moment while I prise the lid off the ceremonial Tin of Golden Syrup and get the Holy Spatula blessed at the High Altar.


Now, acolyte, prepare yourself for the Ritual of Ensmearment by adopting the stance of an Assistant Building Society Manageress caught in a compromising position with a sweet-pickle coated wildebeest by a traffic warden clutching a non-stick frying pan.

No, no. The right knee should be slightly higher, and tuck your elbows in a bit more.


Now we can begin.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

A Contemplative Moment

Anyway, here we are contemplating some of the more esoteric notions of the perverse it has been my fortune to come acro… er… examine in great detail. This is the first time I have ever seen sex spatulas used in such a manner on an assistant pharmacist before, well… not on a Tuesday, anyway, especially as today is Thursday.


It is not all that unusual for those of a more traditionalist bent to look upon such innovations askance and to loudly enquire upon what the world is coming to. However, I for one feel (and I apologise for the coldness of my hands) that innovation is in many ways the essence of perversion.

After all, if I may wax philosophical* for a moment, And for such an encounter to be regarded as perverse, it must deviate from the accepted norm** in some manner, such as fully immersing the assistant librarian in the lukewarm custard, or finding a politician even vaguely sexually attractive.

However, when such dalliances become commonplace, then they must – by definition – no longer be regarded as perverse. For there was once a time – hard to credit it nowadays, of course, when even buttering a social worker was regarded as beyond the pale, but where would any run-of-the-mill suburban swingers’ party be these days without such a commonplace activity?

Therefore, is it not the application of the watermelon to the quantity surveyor that turns a run-of-the-mill erotic encounter into a full-blown*** perversion?

Answers on the back of a lightly-moistened and loosely bound clerical assistant to the usual address.

*Please note I did NOT write wax a philosopher, such an advance perversion should not be even contemplated, let alone attempted by anyone who is not at least a well-seasoned (and lightly-oiled) pervert of many years standing, especially if the philosopher is a logical-positivist, of course.

**But not this Norm.

***If you are very lucky.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

In Experienced Hands

So there we have it. A truly splendid specimen, I’m sure you will agree.


It is not often in this day and age we see one of this calibre, especially one standing so tall, upstanding and proud. It takes the delicate hands of a truly gifted cake shop manageress to bring such a fine cream horn to the peak of its potential like this.

Leaving it seemingly trembling on the very cusp of becoming overcome with its own potency, with the subtle suggestion that the slightest pressure from her experienced fingers will be enough to force the cream to explode from its end, leaving it limp, exhausted and a mere shadow of its former self.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Grand Old Uncle Stagnant

Now we clutch our chins tightly while our knees explode with foreboding. It is that time of year when the mind begins to walk its darker back corridors, exploring those rooms of the unconscious where we keep the doors closed tight, in case anything should begin to creep out, explore and infest those usually more brighter rooms much nearer to where we normally reside.


It is on days like this that we - as the night draws its blankets over the skies - lift up our eyes to glance into the shadowy corner where all we can see is that darker shadow that is Grand Old Uncle Stagnant. All we can hear, above the flames licking the coals in the fireplace here in the snug of The Pervert’s Appendage, is the sound of Stagnant’s muttering breathing as he furiously whittles* away in that far corner.

Of course, back in his day – a day long faded into night-time now of course – Grand Old Uncle Stagnant was widely regarded as a fine figure of a man. The kind of man who makes every ewe in the meadow turn her head, and with a shiver in her shanks, bleat in wonderment and desire as he wends his way down the lane between the fields.

Alas though, time, tide, too much beer and an overindulgence in eager and willing sub-postmistresses has left its mark (in the case of one particular sub-postmistress in the 1950s several teeth marks and a rope burn that has yet to fade) upon this once proud and always upstanding man, leaving him this poor faded and pale shadow of his former self.

So now all he has left is his memories, a couple of otherwise sheep-specific intimate diseases and his whittling**.


*at least we hope it is whittling that he is so keenly engaged upon, and that the occasional detritus he sends our way is - in fact – a wood shaving and not some other more intimate bodily former-fluid now atrophied into solidity with age and unuse.

**at least we hope it is whittling etc.

Monday, February 15, 2010

Devices Of An Intimate Nature

Now, unless I am very much mistaken – as Maureen often forcibly insists I am – or that is one of the brand-new Splodge & Sons Intimate Massaging Device For The Lady Of Discernment V200.7b. Although from the illustration in the catalogue (full colour for the discerning collector), I merely assumed that the young lady demonstrating the device and its capabilities was on the smaller side. I don’t think I’ve seen anything of quite that size and girth since last winter’s unusually high winds blew down a 250-year-old oak tree in the lower woods.


Anyway, I see that the device comes with its own carrying strap, so it won’t be that inconvenient as we make our way down to the upper lower woods for this morning’s Outdoor Perversions Field Trip. That is as long as we stick to the wider paths, of course.

Friday, February 12, 2010

On Workplace Dalliances

Now, let us go and see what kind of small intimate massaging device we can locate with the environs of Little Frigging. We require something suitable for a gift for a young librarian and her eager and equally-young assistant as they go about pleasuring each other in an overly intimate manner down in amongst the Fiction S-Z shelves of the Little Frigging village library.


You may feel yourself – or not depending on mood – that such acts are not really suitable indulgencies for the working hours, that such things ought to be kept for the hours when one is not at work, or – at least – confined to one’s tea or lunch breaks.

However, I – for one – feel that this notion of ‘workplace efficiency’ where all the working hours should be devoted to – and solely to – the task for which one is employed is – to say the least – sadly misguided.

It should be evident, if not self-evident – that a happy worker is a more productive worker and therefore any fully-consensual fondling that takes place between workmates should – if it increases the happiness and/or wellbeing of said employees – be encouraged rather than regarded as a break of workplace rules and etiquette.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

A Dark Morning In The Woods

The woods can be a dark, mysterious and even foreboding place even to those of us well-versed and familiar with the doings and sounds of the countryside. A stroll through the Little Frigging woods on one of these cold, dark and damp mornings can make even the most experienced woodland perversions adept start at the odd sounds and rustles coming from the deeply shadowed undergrowth. Such things as the muttering of feral hairstylists as they whisper to each other of holidays and girls’ nights out, the eerie sound of wild lawyers preparing litigation against other unseen denizens of the night time and so on.


Then there are the nests of the folksingers.

We have spoken before about those brave and often foolhardy folksingers prepared to do battle on our behalf, wrestling with bestial accordions and attempting to tame the ferocious banjo. We have all heard their fearsome battle cries and the unearthly wailing as they battle these unholy creatures – often to the death, or even until well after closing time. We have even heard the rumours of Morris dancing – but it is best to draw a discrete veil over the habits and practices of folk singers. After all, we have seen the beards and we all know what they foretell.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

A Sub Postmistress In Bondage


Now as we are gathered here together on this… this… this rather dull and ordinary afternoon to see how we can go about going about things with our usual half-arsed approach to all and sundry. Still as they say you can lead a pervert to the fetish gear, but she can’t apply the unguents whilst dressed as a sub postmistress in bondage.

It is a truth often acknowledged that a underdressed young man of good standing will not be short of putative partners in the village orgy, especially during the Ladies’ Excuse Me. Therefore let us tarry no further and taking our suitably secured post-mistresses by any easily accessible appendage that presents itself to us on into the village hall in order to visit this year’s Annual Amateur Bondage exhibition. For it is today when those who find string, rope, knots and leather accessories even slightly arousing gather together to discuss and admire each other’s ability with the sheepshank and rolling hitch, as well as finding the chance to swap late-night consensual dubbing stories with like-minded acquaintances.

However, for those of us who are not great fans of restraining techniques and other applied interests it can be an eye-opening experience to see a cake shop manageress trussed up in a decorative manner before moving on to find something more to our interest in the list of upcoming attractions on the Village hall notice board.

In which case I bid you all good evening.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Close Encounter

There it was, glowing resplendent in the dawning light like a… like a… a thing that was glowing… er… resplendently. Up until that moment, I had regarded talk of such things as the ravings of the deluded, the chemically-addled and the hopeless dreamers. Never had I thought that I would see such a thing. Never had I thought such a thing could be real. Even then, I felt as though I ought to be dreaming, but this, I knew, was no dream.

Almost despite myself, I moved closer. Just then an opening... a hatch... a doorway of some kind opened in the side of the vehicle.

A creature emerged slowly blinking as the bright lights from the inside of the craft turned it into no more than a vaguely human-like silhouette.


“Oh,” it said, caught unaware by my sudden appearance outside its craft. “Morning.”

“M… morn… morning,” I replied, nervously checking that – should it prove necessary – I had an avenue of escape.

‘Local… are you?” the creature said, cautiously approaching me.

I realised that the strange alien creature was as nervous as I was, probably not expecting to encounter a fellow sentient creature in such a bare deserted place. I nodded, finally.

“Only, you see, we’re not from these parts,” he nodded back towards the strange alien craft behind him. “Obviously.”

Of course, I was young then – yet to see my first Inter-Village Orgy match, let alone partake in one myself. Of course, Grand Old Uncle Stagnant had taken me to one side and explained to me the ways of the world, and all about tourists and how important it was, always, to make sure they left the village with far less money than when they arrived. But, this, this was the first time I had ever met one, and the first time I had ever seen a touring caravan.

Actually, apart from the… er… ‘thing’ where Old Feebletrousers lived, which more resembled a very large tinned rubbish dump – it was the first caravan I’d seen that was actually capable of movement without becoming a major health and safety hazard.

Thinking quickly, with Grand Old Uncle Stagnant’s wise words still resonating in my head, I said. “Oh, you do know there is a charge, a small charge, for parking your caravan here overnight?”

It was the first time I made money from tourists, but deep down in my heart, I knew it would not be the last.

Monday, February 8, 2010

On The Freshness Of Her Baps

But even if the very budgerigars of our indifference are painting the skies with multitudes of colour, whilst turning the ground underneath their gyring gyrations into a bespeckled black and white terrain of antipodean guano, it is still not quite the time for our daily visit to the Little Frigging cake shop. There to see what our erstwhile cake shop manageress, Fanny Knickerless, has managed to achieve with a cream horn, or to check the freshness of her baps by giving them a gentle squeeze.


So, until that hour strikes, let us sit here awhile, and recalibrate our sex spatulas and hone our perversion tongs in readiness for this evening’s special event down at the Little Frigging village hall.

For tonight is the night when the whole of the village gathers together for that most special of all the village events that take place throughout the year. For tonight is Little Frigging’s Annual Nothing-in-Particular Day. Yes, it is that one night of the year when every villager makes a point of going on down to the village hall – dressed in their finest fetish gear and wielding their highly-polished and finely-decorated perversion implements – in order to do Nothing in Particular in as many moist and interesting ways as possible in the time available.

See you there!

Friday, February 5, 2010

On The Job Training

It is not often that one gets the chance to talk frankly about the unguents, scents, and lotions best used to keep a VAT Inspector at its peak, primed and ready for various perverted practices involving vibrating devices, fresh cream cakes and several small furry mammals of the season.


This is not one of those chances either.

Still, anyway. There are – as you will see – still plenty of items on the agenda, set out for your perusal. If, by way of example, we take the first item: Matters arising from the last meeting you will see there is the matter of the rather large and unfortunate stain left on one of the secretaries from sometime during our last meeting. Also, the clerical assistant seems to be still wearing the handcuffs, and very little else.

Don't get me wrong, I do support the idea of work experience, but I do feel that is taking ‘on the job training’ a little too far for my liking in what is – after all – a very busy office.

It was to prevent such outbreak of the rude and naughty that we introduced our special 'Undress and Go Down' Fridays where working colleagues can bond together in as many and varied ways as their time schedules, working practices and desire for moist naughtiness allows. This does – of course – mean that they will, in future, not put in spurious claims for overtime for 'working late', when – in reality – they are just arranging secret trysts for the times after the rest of their colleagues have already departed for the evening.

So, not only is the workforce kept happy – if sometimes a little tired, they are not doing it on time and a half.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Stoat Detector

Anyway, even though the stoat detector didn’t quite work quite as advertised, still managed to detect three cars, a piece of toast and a small purple-handled screwdriver that had become lodged under Grand Old Uncle Stagnant since the mince pie incident the Christmas before last.


So, all in all, after all that then it wasn’t quite the waste of money that Maureen had claimed when I pointed it out to her in the catalogue. Although, to be fair to her, the Giant Ebony Throbbing Tickler that she chose from her own – rather more specialised – catalogue* was more of a success. It does seem to have brought a smile to her face in a way I’ve not seen since that time she spent the evening with the other ladies of the village looking after our local blacksmith, Strom Thighhammer, after he was overcome during his ‘Fireman’s Pole’ dance routine for the Ladies’ Night down at the village hall.

Anyway, I think the Stoat Detector is bound to come in useful for something, if not exactly detecting stoats, then as a conversation piece or something for prising the Wellington boots off recalcitrant choir girls prior to the rehearsals for the choir recital and all-village orgy on the next Free-Form Perversion Night down at the village hall a week on Wednesday.


* Christmas Gift Catalogue 2009 - Splodge & Sons (Purveyors of Marital and Sexual aids to the gentry since 1789).

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Time For Tea And Strumpets


After a hard day firtling your tranklements, there is nothing nicer than to wend your way home for a batch of hot-buttered strumpets and a nice cup of tea. There is nothing nicer than having a brace, or more, of hot-buttered strumpets disporting themselves across your kitchen table, or even your fireside hearth, when you come inside from the cold of a typical British sunny day, or if soaking wet from the heavy rain during what the weather forecaster solemnly promised would be an ideal day for a short trip outdoors.

Anyway, the hot-buttered strumpets can prove invaluable if you are slumped there in wellies as they will often volunteer to do the pulling off while you remain seated. Once the pulling off has been completed and your wellies lie limp and defeated in the corner, the strumpets can then go about removing your clothes whilst you assist them by licking off any excess warm butter that may have accrued in their crevices, for which they will no doubt be eager to show their gratitude in the traditional way.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Inconsequential Drivel Like This

It is not as easy as it looks, coming up with stuff for this... this... thing, day after day. Sometimes the marmosets are quiet, peaceful, and there is not a sound from the lawyer sty or the hairstylist pens. Days can go by without a single wry or halfway-amusing event that could be spun out to a paragraph or two. Most of the time too the wild sex orgies tend to pass without a mishap with the custard, or the goat escaping and fleeing down towards the by-pass.


In short, most days are the usual run-of-the-mill quiet days of unusual sexual perversions and surreal happenings that grace any small English village that boasts at least two cake shops and an indoor market.

This whole blogosphere is littered with blogs composed by people who believe their particular area is somehow quaint or interesting just because their local vicar wears extreme bondage gear and hangs around outside the post office pestering pensioners to whip his proudly-proffered genitalia with a rolled up copy of The Spectator. But the very ubiquity of such occurrences is enough to disprove the very uniqueness we like to claim for ourselves and to show that underneath the rubber fetish underwear and exotic unguents we are all very much of a muchness.

Still, as the post-festering season stumbles towards its inevitable conclusion and the Christmas season of hangover, bloated greasy queasiness and self-indulgent over-indulgent fades into no more than a distant regret, we can look forward to the ensuing spring. Then, Maureen and I can face the new days with a small hope that soon it will be time to mount the pursuit tandem in all our glorious nakedness and go further field into the green and sunshine, looking for whatever adventure comes our way, which can later be made into a handful of paragraphs of inconsequential drivel like this.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Pub Games

Once upon a time, there was a shoe mender, and his wife, who lived in a small kingdom just off the A461. They had thirteen children - mainly because no-one had, as yet, had the foresight to invent either contraception or television. All their children: six boys, six girls, and one yet to be announced - all grew up to be shoe menders too, which makes this story a load of cobblers.


I hope you take on board the moral of this story above, and apply the lesson learnt to your own lives, especially if you are fortunate enough to have a shoe fetish, or just an unhealthy interest in those who deal exclusively with footwear in their daily working lives.

Still, I suppose, it could be worse, but precisely how, I'm not quite sure.

Anyway, time to move on and get the marmosets buttered, ready to take down to the village pub, The Pervert's Appendage, ready for this evening's inter-pub challenge. Tonight, it is - of course - the All-Nude Buttered Marmoset Restraining match semi-finals against the team from The Fox and Quantity Surveyor in Upper Lower Spadgecock (last year's champions). This year we have done quite well, getting through to the Upper Thyghspreader All-County quarterfinals. This is mainly thanks to a marvellously executed buttered-marmoset grapple by Miss Labia Entanglements (our Post Mistress) in the dying seconds of extra time in the sixth round play offs against the team from Morningwood-in-the-LowerBack's The Catamite In The Bush pub team.