Friday, January 29, 2010

New Year Nostrums

Now, as the tentacles of the VAT Inspector of Doom entwine themselves around your nether regions with all the tenacity of a… a… a very tenacious thing indeed, it is time for me to come up with another one of these… whatever they are… for this… this… whatever it is.

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This seasonal quiet period on the farm will soon be over. Already the adverts for putative holiday destinations are beginning to appear on the TV sets and in the glossy magazines that so beguile the hairdressers as they discard the tinsel, glitter and unwanted boyfriends of the festive season. It is almost time for them to start uttering this year’s fashionable psychobabble, perhaps something about finding themselves, empowerment, meaningful relationships, self-actualization or some other shallow little epigrammatic nonsenses that can almost sound superficially profound whilst at the same time remaining trite and meaningless.

As you know, these are the preferred modes of discourse for such creatures as hairstylists. Not that these utterances actually mean anything, of course, they are mere grooming* talk, in a way, subtle charms that soothe the existentialist dread that even hairstylists are sometimes prone to.

 

*For most of those who have studied this species, it is seen as no co-incidence that hairstylists whose very existence is predicated on almost continual grooming-type activities should be so adept at this ‘grooming’ talk too.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

By Way Of An Apology And An Explanation

Now it is often said, especially by those more garrulous than perspicacious, that a single man in possession of a well-packed lunch box must be in need of a woman with a certain amount of slackness in her knicker elastic.

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Far be it from me, however, to offer any confirmation and/or denial of such a… well, dubious, piece of folk wisdom. I have been around the world, and once even spent an afternoon in Tipton, but still I would not like to pontificate on such matters, especially in mixed company and especially when my weasel is about to come to the boil.

Now, I hear you ask*, what has this to do with the matter in hand? Well, if you would kindly take the matter out of your hand and return it to the underwear that is its more natural home, I will explain.

As the keener-eyed amongst you may have noticed, this… this… whatever it is… has, very briefly, of late been looked after by our very own Grand Uncle Stagnant, however he has decided that – after only a day – he is not up to it, especially after a vigorous morning in the hay loft with the dairy maids (all 17 of them), as well as taking up his new employment.

So I have - after some persuasion, including some rather deft handling of the rolling pin by my own dear Maureen - been forced of my own free will decided to take up the reins of this… this… whatever it is… once more.

Of course, it goes without saying that I will do my utmost to make sure it continues to be updated with the frequency that a person of your taste and discernment has come to expect.

While I can see that your expectation of some form of explanation for both my and Maureen’s absence from this splendidly upstanding organ should necessitate some explanation, may I just quite whisper about certain matters of national security and point you in this direction as by way of illumination.

 

*Yes, I do have especially keen hearing**.

**I heard that too.

Grand Old Uncle Stagnant Has Taken Himself In Hand

Some goodbadmediocrepale yellow… er… news!

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Apparently, Grand Uncle Stagnant has had to give up his – all too brief – stewardship of this… this… whatever it is, and I have – reluctantly been bribed… persuaded to take back the helm, at least for the time being.

It seems that Grand Old Uncle Stagnant has taken himself in hand and managed to find himself a part-time job. This will be encouraging news for our dairy maids as they will be able to go about the milking of our cows without the ever-present danger of Grand Old Uncle Stagnant presenting certain parts of himself to the dairy maids as a form of hands-on training for them.

As with many DIY emporia throughout this noble land, Little Frigging’s Self-Fettling Store has instigated a policy of employing older workers in its store, many of whom are experts in several forms of DIY.

As you probably know, Grand Uncle Stagnant is himself a world–renowned expert on the art of tongue and groove, as many ladies who have had intimate experience of his technique will no doubt attest. Not only that, if any ladies of the village need to go into the shop in search of, say, a long screw, a good hammering, or even in search of some hands-on experience with a power tool, then Grand Uncle Stagnant will – from now on - do his utmost to help those ladies achieve full satisfaction from their intercourse with him.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Leisure Centre, My Arse

[A Guest Post By Grand Uncle Stagnant]

This is all the cheese we will ever need. I have a small container. We could put things in it and then we could place it next to the cheese. Then, each and every one of us could gather in a circle around the cheese and the adjacent container to sing the praises of Ludovic Kennedy and his special friend Nigel the wombat.

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What is the point of all this marmalade now the skies are green with all the greenness of the green things?

Naughty nudie nakedness. She had no clothes on, and she was naked in the nude and naughty with no clothes on, and her naked nudity was all there, and it was lovely.

Pig bananas in the chip shop. Goat apples in the supermarket. Chicken pears in the Cobblers and sheep oranges in the newsagent. Is it now any wonder the post office has horse plums infesting the greeting card racks?

Animal fruit everywhere and even the public convenience at the other end of the High Street bear the stains of rabbit pineapples.

I shall complain to the animal fruit attendant at the Public Swimming Baths - Leisure Centre, my arse.

Compulsory Quiz Programmes

[A Guest Post By Grand Uncle Stagnant]

Do goats really exist?

I have seen you naked, and I liked it - a lot. Maybe one day I will be granted permission to touch your elbow once again. Maybe when all those bad memories have faded.

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Do you keep donkeys on your patio? Do you ever make sketches of the Norwegians queuing in the dry-cleaners?

You laugh now, but wait until you see the bill.

This Smoked Weasel Cheese is deadly to Peruvians, who must smear it across the bare chest of the first stockbroker they encounter on the first day of spring, if they want to avoid contracting the fatal rash all over their thighs.

These are true facts. Learnt them well, my little hubcap, and your soul will be saved when the time comes for us to all appear on compulsory TV quiz programmes; where we are forced to win luxury all-expenses paid holidays of a lifetime, whether we want them or not.

Ah, the holy holiday. People used to dream of a better life than this: a heaven, a paradise, a utopia.

Now they just dream of going on holiday instead.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Fully-Loaded Protractors

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[A Guest Post By Grand Uncle Stagnant]

So, this is the way it goes. This is where you are and that is the smell of your socks. Our bananas are made of loincloths and we adamantly refuse to adopt the trousered stances of those who would pontificate to excess about the most mundane and trivial of matters. As if the doings of politicians and others of that ilk could be anything other than mendacious. We here laugh at such affectations and are quietly amused by such pomposities.

Therefore, you oil the badger and I will obtain a bicycle pump. We will become like the heroes of yore, standing proud in our resplendent underpants while those of less-stern stuff simper around at our slipper-clad feet.

You know - only-too-well - the awesome power we will be able to thenceforth command, and you must know too the fearsome responsibility that lies heavy on the shoulders of one who would dare wield such overwhelmingly powerful weapons as the pointed stick and fully-loaded protractor.

Together, then, let us spread marmalade over one-another's thighs in preparation for the battle to come.

The End of an Era

Tonight, as the weasels ululate to the setting sun, and the few remaining feral hairstylists in the woods below return to their nests to roost, Maureen and I will don our bondage gear and oil the badger for the final time, before making our way up to the very rooftop of Quandary Towers.

Once there we will, in a ceremony that dates back to just after tea-time yesterday, lower the Standard of the Noble Order Of The Trouser Quandaries* for the very last time.

Yes, my little stapling machine, it is true that all good things must come to an end, and the same applies to those things that on rare occasion reach the heights of mediocrity such as this… er… whatever it is.

Yes, at long last it is time for I – Norbert Trouser-Quandary – to bid you a fond farewell and leave this blog for pastures new.

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So… farewell then, siblings, and may whatever it is that you want to happen to you happen to you with whatever frequency of occurrence you desire, and may whatever you don't want to happen keep its distance from you for as long as you feel it necessary.

No, it's all right I just have something in my eye, that's all.

Run along now before it gets dark, the wild accordions will begin their nocturnal stalkings soon.

However, despair not my loyal reader (and your friend), for this blog will continue from now on in the… er… capable hands of our very own Grand Uncle Stagnant.

Such are the vagaries of the Blogger platform that the change from Norbert Trouser-Quandary to Grand Uncle Stagnant means that all my former posts now bear his name. But I’m sure that those of you who know both our very different styles will know – if you care - who wrote what, whenever you choose to peruse the archive.

So, then, this is goodbye from me Norbert Trouser-Quandary, and please give a warm welcome to your new hoist:

Grand Uncle Stagnant

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*featuring a pair of trousers rampant on a golden field of weasels pursuant with the motto: In Trouserus Legium Putia).

Monday, January 25, 2010

Arts And Crafts Apprehension

Anyway, here we are once again. I don't know what to say, really. There are rumours and stories muttering through the village, that the feral folk singers down in the woods may be planning a folk music festival for the summer.

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When people gather late in the night, to help carry each other home from The Pervert's Appendage, there is dark and suspicious talk of applications for Arts Council grants, and other such deviant goings-on, There has - as a consequence - been some wild and fearful scaremongering about the possibility of Morris Dancing, or even… an outbreak of ethnic folk dress! There is also dread that such a thing could inflict outsiders on the village. No-one wants that, unless, of course, they are tourists - easily separable from their money.

Of course, throughout history, there have been unwanted side-effects and unforeseen consequences of bringing in some non-indigenous species in to help control an infestation of pests. Often the consequences of such an act have been far, far, worse than the original problem - sort of like bringing in a Noel Edmonds to prevent an infestation of Graham Norton in the TV schedules.

As you should know, we brought in the folk singers to control an outbreak of wild accordions running amok in our woods, frightening the indigenous free-range hairstylists that nest down there. When the idea of bringing in the folk singers was first mooted there was some fear that there could be a related outbreak of Arts & Crafts*, but no-one - not in our wildest nightmares - could ever imagine that the folk singers would start organising festivals**.

Already some villagers are out gathering wood for the bonfires and shaping the wicker into wickerman cages, should this dread Folk Music Festival ever materialise.

 

*But this can be easily contained by opening an Arts & Crafts shop in the village in order to unload the stuff onto tourists.

**This shows the danger of Arts Council grants, of course.

Friday, January 22, 2010

Advanced Sexual Perversions – Lesson 3

Well, here we are now.

Isn’t this… well… this?

If I am not very much mistaken I can see from the way you have adopted the - rather provocative – stance of a loss-adjustor about to place a half-empty goldfish bowl seventeen-and-a-half inches away from a plate of freshly buttered scones, that you may be ready to move onto the next lesson in your Advanced Perversion course.

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Now, if you could just equip yourself with a weasel – lightly-buttered, of course - from the woodland mammal sack over near the halfway line of the perversion pitch, and take the time to select something in your size from the excellent range of fetish gear on the sex utensil racks near the boundary line, then I feel we could begin*.

Of course, by their very nature Advanced Perversions are a great deal more demanding than ordinary perversions, and tend to leave you with a bad back or a severe case of Itchy Knee if you do not do the warm up exercises first. Therefore, if you would like to take your librarian by the hand and lead him, or her, over to the fresh cream trifle ensmearment tables, then we can begin the warm up exercises. Always, remember though, to take yourself in hand well before applying ANY fresh cream trifle to the erogenous zones of the librarian, no matter how aroused it seems to make the quantity surveyor on your immediate left.

Then, if you will join me – with your freshly-opened jar of marmite - over at the billiard table we can begin to chant the donkey-beguilement mantra together.

 

*Or even, begin to feel.

[Advanced Sexual Perversions – Lesson 1]

[Advanced Sexual Perversions – Lesson 2]

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Throbbing With Anticipation

And so we come to that time in the rural calendar when a man looks at his sheep flock and begins to wonder. After all, ‘there is no finer sight in any gentle rolling green English field than the sight of a fresh young ewe from behind,’ as Old Feebletrousers often remarks after the first few dozen pints in The Pervert’s Appendage of an evening, as strange stirrings take place deep in the darker recesses of his wellies.

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Of course, though, however and notwithstanding (or more often than not with standing), us more modern farmers who have had to enter into the wilder unknown shores of diversification also look over our flocks of farm-assured home-grown organic hairstylists. Moreover, we too wonder as we observe them going about that strange pre-mating ritual they call ‘getting ready for a girl’s night out.’ and, yes, our wellies too throb with anticipation and excitement as the sap of spring rises all around us, and – as we are only human* - within us too.

*In the case of Grand Uncle Stagnant only just human.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

A Revolution In Self-Pleasuring Technology

Splodge and Sons have recently announced what they call ‘a revolution in self-pleasuring technology’ with their brand new Pulsating Stoat 89000B angle-poise vibrator. They claim that their ‘revolutionary’ angle-poise technology will be a major breakthrough in the art of self-pleasuring as the jointing and swivelling technology of the new device makes self-pleasuring discomfort a thing of the past with no more having to bend oneself at awkward and sometimes painful angles in order to make maximum use of this new device.

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Using special NASA™ technology originally developed to prevent astronauts getting bored on tedious shuttle flights, the new Pulsating Stoat 89000B is capable of achieving the peak of self-pleasuring satisfaction in almost any position. Achieving this without any unseemly bending or making use of furniture or soft furnishings in a manner they were not intended or designed for, as well as tending not to frighten any pets and/or elderly relatives who happen upon you whilst you are engaged in your self-pleasuring acts.

All in all the Pulsating Stoat 89000B promises to be a major break through in the self-pleasuring arts.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Elderly Relative Poking Sticks

So, anyway, here we are all ready to put the Poking An Elderly Relative With A Stick Day costumes and implements back into the cupboard for another year. All in all, I must say that this year's ceremony was one of the best yet. Nearly everyone in the village had some elderly relative (no mater how distantly related*) to poke.

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Of course, before I put it away, I had to fully-oil our traditional Family Elderly Relative Poking Stick with the ceremonial Hamster Liver Oil. This particular Poking Stick has been in our family now for just over three hundred and fifty years. Although, it is not the oldest Elderly Relative Poking Stick in the village. That particular honour belongs to the Goatimplements family. Their Elderly Relative Poking Stick was one of the first in the country to be whittled when Poking An Elderly Relative With A Stick Day was reinstated during the Restoration, after it had been banned for the whole of the Puritan period. This was despite Cromwell himself being a staunch supporter of the practice (especially in the years between the short and long parliaments where he is reported to have personally poked several uncles, two aunts and a second cousin with his own personally-whittled poking stick).

But, under increasing pressure from the more extreme puritans the Parliament finally gave in, after their compromise motion allowing people to stand no closer than one and three-quarters of the length of the longest poking stick from their relatives was defeated by a mere 3 votes.

However, strict Puritanism never really caught on with the British, who much prefer having something to complain, moan and tut about, rather than having it banned outright. So, once King Charles II was restored to the throne it was only a matter of time before elderly relatives were once again being poked with sticks as nature intended.

 

*And, yes, Little-Frigging-In-The-Wold is a small rural village, so almost everyone is somehow related to everyone else**.

**Us locals, that is, not those outsiders whose families have only been in the village for less than two centuries.

Monday, January 18, 2010

Urban Accordions and Hairstylist Mating Rituals

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Well, here we are again, and isn’t it nice this morning/afternoon/evening*?

Even though our modern hairstylists may be (sort of) domesticated, the primitive wild urges are also still there, deep inside them. At the first sign of tinsel and bright shiny balls on display, they begin to feel the old wild urges growing within themselves. Then they seek out town centres in the dark of the evenings where they can run amok with staggering excesses of alcohol. There they can perform their strange ancient rituals involving mistletoe and other dark arts to entrap the unsuspecting callow unbearded youths that are the only ones brave – or foolhardy enough - to be both out of their heads and out on the streets of our town centres at such dangerous times. But now those times are over, for this year. Consequently, this time of year is usually quite peaceful here on the farm, with the hairstylists in semi-hibernation in front of their murmuring TV sets, as they await the beginning of the summer holiday season.

The lawyers too, are mostly snuggled deep in their writs during the long dark parts of the day, muttering quietly about defamation suits and breaches of Health & Safety legislation as they twitch and dream.

The bestial accordions have migrated further south for the winter, busking as they go, and bringing the concomitant dread and fear to the urban landscapes as commuters and shoppers hear their unearthly wailing from around the next corner. The afeared pedestrians pat their pockets and check their purses for small change, still apparently believing - in this the 21st century, the age of science and technology - the Old Wives’ tale that you can prevent an attack by a busking accordion if you throw silver at it as you flee.

 

*Delete as can be arsed

Friday, January 15, 2010

A Lecture In The Little Frigging Village Hall

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Ah, but list and hark upon the helicopters of our desire as they throb across the unclouded skies of all our innermost dreams of advanced semi-lubricated moist doings. Now is the time that is the time for… er… hang on, I seem to have mislaid my notes. I put them down for a moment whilst I had to adjust my chicken-intriguing harness and I seem to have… er… I’m sure….

Well, if you just fondle amongst yourselves for a moment we will move on to the next item on the agenda… which is… which is….

Ah!

Next, our local librarian, Miss Lesley Mufflapper, will – with the aid of her assistant, Miss Margie Mingefinger, give a demonstration on that very vexing subject, namely The Best Way To Butter An Assistant Librarian. Which - I’m sure you will all agree – something that we will all, no doubt, have to contend with in the upcoming post-Christmas season of village hall orgies.

So, without further ado, I present our local village librarian, Lesley Mufflapper, and her assistant, Margie Mingefinger.

Thank you.

Oh, Miss Mufflapper and Miss Mingefinger would like me top point out that they have, between them, produced an instructional DVD covering the subject of today’s lecture in much greater detail than the lecture itself can, including many slow motion extreme close-ups of some of the more intriguing butterable areas of a firm and nubile assistant librarian. The DVD will be available on sale at the kiosk near the entrance to the village hall once the lecture is over, and will, of course, also be available from the Little Frigging library from tomorrow.

So, without further ado, please give a warm hand (but only if they specifically request it) to Miss Mufflapper and Miss Mingefinger.

Dreaming of Bingo Halls

[A Guest Post By Grand Uncle Stagnant]

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No-one here ever dresses up as a pregnant zebra. So, shall we arrange the anchovies once again?

There are reindeer on the stairs, and the small portable electronic consumer devices we desire to possess are haunting the shelves of all our dreams once again.

I have seen the helicopters at Dawn. I have seen Dawn at the helicopters. Dawn has seen me. We have done very rude things together in the dew-kissed grass. I dressed up as the social worker while Dawn held the kipper.

Don't do that. Or, if you must, please use a handkerchief.

Now we look out at the sea and dream of the bingo halls of all our desires.

Do you know what that is called?

You don't?

Well then, put it away, at least until you know what it is.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

On Not Coming Easily

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It is not easy to stand here day after day fully-rigged out in my perversion utility belt, fetish spats and orgy-cape distilling all my years of experience, wisdom and understanding into a few pithy nostrums and apothegms for the delectation of you - my somewhat jaded - audience (and your friend).

Indeed, sometimes it is hard. But then - if you have frequented an of our open-air village orgies on the green, or attended a village hall perversion evening – you will already know that.

But, not only is it hard (for which I must thank the Teeb Hags for the most efficacious stiffening lotions and fortifying unguents it has ever been my experience to utilise), it is difficult sometimes to think of much more I can add to the already bountiful reams of advice and instruction I have already bestowed upon you.

So, today, I won’t bother.

I bid you good-day.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

On Licking A VAT Inspector In A Secluded Nightspot

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There are times when it all seems slightly too purple. Times when one’s turbo-badger and electro-weasel calibration devices seem unnecessarily temperamental. Times when the herds of semi-domesticated hairstylists seem reluctant to behave in a manner suited to their more usual placid natures, especially when there is no prospect of them ‘going clubbing with the girls*’ in the near future.

Still, as they say, you can’t lick a VAT Inspector in a secluded nightspot without VAT form 45.89b signed in triplicate. So onward we go and delve into today’s doings to see what instruction and possible edification I can bring forth to illuminate your rather dull and ordinary lives. That is not to say I make any claim for my own life to be anything other than the usual mix of routine, ennui and tedium that make up the usual run of existence for the vast majority of us. True, I probably indulge in more perversions, attend more all-village orgies and partake in more doings of a rude and moist nature than those of you who reside in more urban settings, but that is the nature of the rural life.

 

*A dark and mysterious ritual, which – I hope - one day I may have the courage to disclose in this forum.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Perversion As An Art

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Now, although you may have a pristine and fully-calibrated set of sexual perversion spanners, and some of the latest high-tech sex spatulas, that doesn’t automatically mean that you are ready to become a fully-upstanding pervert. For perversion is as much an art as it is a science, and art needs something beyond mere technical prowess at wielding the tools and devices of that art to truly become an art.

Technical proficiency is all well and good, and can bring a smile to the face of any suitably restrained and lubricated cake shop manageress, or assistant librarian (but if the pomegranates are fresh, of course), but true perversion lies far beyond that. Just as – to use a well-worn cliché – the ceiling of the Sistine chapel is more than a couple of coats of Dulux, a true grasp of the perverted arts as an art, lies beyond mere light bondage and the erotic application of small furry mammals to a stockbroker.

Monday, January 11, 2010

Common Agricultural Policy Flaws

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Of course, these days hairstylist are not quite as easy to breed as the number of hair salons on any High Street would first suggest. This is purely a side-effect of the EU’s much derided Common Agricultural Policy, a misguided scheme that has resulted in a number of High Street gluts over the last few decades.

Those of us who have been around awhile will remember how, in the recent past, our very High Streets seemed threatened by a massive outbreak of shoe shops. It was only after the EU’s shoe shop assistant mountain was severely curtailed through an almost complete withdrawal of subsidy that the number of shoe shops returned to the more manageable amount we have these days.

The same happened – of course – with the flood of Travel Agents a few years later. The EU’s farm subsidy system made it far too easy for those who formerly bred those Shoe shop assistants to switch to breeding Travel Agents. The result of course was – a few years down the line – another over-production. Estate Agents too seemed to have a brief period of growth. That has, however, been much better controlled, as the member countries of the EU swiftly approved measures to keep the number of Estate Agents under strict control. Fearing an outbreak of feral estate agents similar to that back in 1830’s Belgium, which almost brought the whole country to its knees, and is widely blamed for making Belgium the boring country it is today.

Friday, January 8, 2010

Spatula Initiation

Slap me with an undertaking and call me Sigmund, isn't that a bit too hairy? I know you prefer these things to be 'natural', but isn't that taking it a smidgeon too far?

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Now, you may be wondering what this is all about. The important thing is not to worry about that. It is a perfectly natural, and normal, thing to worry about, especially at your age.

Anyway, here we are standing together at this, no doubt, highly significant and very important - if somewhat hairier than we'd really expected - point in your life. The important thing for you to remember is to keep a firm grasp on the marmalade jar, and don't agitate the spatula in quite so carefree a manner.

There is no need to look back; your clothes are quite safe in that pile on top of mine.

Just prepare yourself. Do not think too much about the bath full of chilled custard. Remove it from your mind. Concentrate on becoming one with your spatula. Feel the power of the spatula. Feel the force of the marmalade.

Soon, very soon, you will become a full Knight of the Spatula. Soon you will become one - if a rather unusually hairy one - with the cosmos and you will be Master of every chip shop you thenceforth enter throughout the entire universe.

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Litigation Concerns

A bit late today, sorry. Only one of the semi-domesticated lawyers, we use for herding the hairstylists, left a great steaming pile of litigation on the kitchen floor this morning, and I had to clean it up. It is hardly the most welcome task to have to face first thing in the morning. However, it is part of the price we have to pay in order to keep the hairstylist herd manageable, for there is nothing like the whispered threat of legal action into a hairstylist’s ear, by a semi-domesticated lawyer, for getting them to behave in the manner you wish.

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There is, though, the very real danger that if the lawyer gets into the habit of leaving piles of litigation about it may very well mutate into a politician. Then, of course, we would have to face the heart-rending task of sending it away, either to a local council chamber, or – if the worst comes to the worst – to the Houses of Parliament; the National sanctuary for those infected with the dreaded political disease.

Sometimes, I think it would be better if, rather than watching them become immersed in the hollow travesty of living that becoming a politician inevitably entails, we did - to my mind – the more honourable thing, and have them put down. We may feel it is being kind to them to allow them to live out the rest of their unfortunate lives in these sanctuaries. However, when you have – as I have too many times – seen one of these poor unfortunates terminally-infected with incurable politics then you will agree that this is not living, merely a travesty of living and by far the kindest thing would be to end their suffering, and – let’s face it – our suffering too.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Village Hall Accountancy Fetish Night

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Now, it is not unusual to find your badger has already filled-out its income tax return for the year whilst you have been out in the tupping shed recalibrating your housemaids, but this should be no reason for you to neglect the full audit, if - and when - your accountancy fetish gear comes back from the dry cleaners.

Ah, if only you had thought less of the expense and chosen the rubber accountancy costume, then you would be less concerned about the rigours of a full-on accountancy fetish session leaving its telltale stains upon your fetish gear. I did warn you about suede and its unfortunate propensity towards staining, but you did – as usual – go for style over function. Not always a wise choice when it comes to the necessities of the perverted arts, as I have so often said before.

But, be that as it may, I’m sure that a vigorous rub with a small Welsh Canteen manageress will be enough to remove some of the worst of the stains, then you can hold your head high – or as high as the neck restraint allows next time you are in attendance at the monthly Village Hall Accountancy Fetish Night.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Socrates and Stoats

Now, then, here we are again. This is quite useful, because if one of us were over there, then we would be far too far apart for meaningful intercourse to take place. As well as making the fair and equal distribution of the fresh cream cakes slightly more than problematical.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't Socrates himself cover this very point - in his usual rather thorough way - in his dialogue, with Stan the Twat, concerning the often subtle differences between natural justice and a slightly bewildered stoat?*

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Anyway, be that as it may - unless it isn't, let us move carefully forward in order to broach today's fascinating subject…, which is….

Ah…

I don't seem to have one with me. This is very strange. I'm sure I had a subject this morning when I left the house. I distinctly remember checking all my pockets - which is quite quick when all I’m are wearing is: the obligatory rural flat cap, lawyer-sty mucking-out wellies, and - of course - my bejewelled lecturing thong and braces.

Ah, hang on….

I remember where I left it.

Just wait here….

I'll only be a minute….

Or two….

 

*But, as A.J. Ayer pointed out in his seminal Language, Truth and Stoats, 'here Socrates is talking (to use a professional philosopher's phrase) Utter Bollocks! True, in the Platonic Forms sense, it could - theoretically - be difficult to tell them apart, especially if the stoat is quite bewildered, in reality the stoat is much more the furriest of the two**.

**That is, under strict Philosophical laboratory conditions, of course.

Monday, January 4, 2010

Orgy Training

Anyway, anyroadup, so here we are then. Right.

Er….

April is the cruellest month

Because it beats March

To death with a stick.

'Ah, but,' I hear you say, 'this is January!'

I do not reply. I just stare back with that expression that says 'no-one likes a smart-arse.'

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Still, as they say, 'you can't dress up like a cabbage without looking like a complete dickhead'.

So, let us get on with today's… er… today's… er… today's whatever it is….

Well, to be honest - and when all is said and done - I might as well give it a go - there isn't much happening at the moment.

Well, that is apart from the practice sessions for the Upper-Thyghspredder Inter-Village Orgy League. But, I'm sure that tales (told in a full and frank adult manner) of frantic sexual activity between large numbers of highly attuned and trained consenting adults, several (well-lubricated) small furry mammals - and the occasional quite-surprised chicken - are all a bit run-of-the-mill to a person of your urbane sophistication and erudition. Consequently, I will draw a discreet veil over all that and promise to see you upon the morrow*, bright and early**.

Perhaps, even, if you feel up to such explicitness, we could talk of some of the more daring forms of accountancy.

 

*morrow – NOT marrow, not without adequate lubricating unguents anyway.

** No, not that early. There’s no point on these dark mornings when you can’t even see the ewe in front of you.