Monday, May 31, 2010

The Queen’s Award for Hairstylist Husbandry


Good News! It has come to pass that my modest smallholding has been awarded the Queen’s Award for Hairstylist Husbandry, so it seems Maureen will have to buy a hat.

It is also the time of year when we should all be thinking about taking our sex spatulas in for an annual service and recalibration before the full rigours of the summer outdoor orgy and woodland perversion season gets into full swing. Imagine the social awkwardness if you are called upon to perform some woodland perversion and you discover that your sex spatulas are completely out of sync. You would not be able to hold yourself erect at the next meeting of your local amateur orgy club, that’s for sure.

It has been a quiet time with the free-range hairstylists grazing free in the Lower Upper field, but now they are showing signs of wanting to build nests in preparation for flying to foreign beach resorts to begin their mating season. So we will have to begin stocking up on magazines, chocolate, wine and DVDs in readiness.

Friday, May 28, 2010

The String Vest Monster


The String Vest Monster

So silence grows
Out from the fingertips
Of fading sounds
As we reach out to touch
The glowing underpants
Of the String Vest Monster.

We too have worn
The nylon shirts of Desperation.

We too have faced the terror
Of elasticated fitted-sheets
That attack without warning
In the deep cold watches of the night.

We too have caught our foreskins
In the Zip of Destiny.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Loin-Girding Time


My Holy Helicopter Thursday indifference has swollen to well beyond the point of inconsequentiality. However, be that as it may, maybe one day you and I will play naked ping-pong yet again, now that spring is really here.

I look out to see a world spread out before me resplendent with rampant stockbrokers and fecund hairstylists. It is a day when you could almost believe the accordions are gone… forever.

But, only too soon, it will be banjo season and we must consider - therefore - girding our loins… or - even better - girding each other's loins. I have the loin-girding unguents and lotions, and you have the girding spanners and mallet. So, let us go then, you and I, down to the girding shed, taking all the necessary fresh cream cakes with us.

Still - as you must know - spring is a busy time for those of us who are busy in the spring. For those of us - however - who are not quite so busy in the spring, it is often a much less busy time.

For those who have read this far in the vain hope of coming across some bizarre sexual deviance, or unusual ritual perversion… well, I'm afraid it is not your lucky day.


Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Automatic Knee Fondling Devices


Ponder upon the very nature of your goat-cheese and its relationship to your unicycle my little watering can. Doesn’t it make you wonder about the existence of automatic knee fondling devices for the hard of naughtiness, especially when Rosie’s fingers are already creeping all over Dawn?

You would think so, at least if you were wearing your pondering mittens and thinking shin pads, ready for some off-road philosophising. Still, as they say, at least when they say it:

You can’t make an omelette without using the ingredients necessary for the successful construction of an entity that bears all the distinguishing features of an omelette.

Anyway, here we are undoing the string that holds the world to our feet as we walk around trying to find the necessary attachment for our devices that will allow us to spread butter upon a recalcitrant marmoset at less than optimum butter-spreading temperatures.

However, we wander in vain through the shopping malls of our nightmares made real, wondering why – or if at all – the world needs quite so many shoes. It is just as well we are wearing our philosophising shin pads.

New EU-Wide Tax Proposed


The European Union's commissioner for the internal market has announced proposals for a new EU-wide tax. However, translation difficulties within the EU’s massive bureaucracy mangled the initial announcement, leading people to believe that a new EU bank tax was being proposed.

However, as a spokesman for the commissioner later clarified:

What we are proposing is not a EU-wide bank tax, but a EU-wide Plank tax. For example, for those of you in the UK we believe you should not – in your political system – have to suffer from such utter planks as George Osborne, Harriet Harman, John Bercow and so many others without having the safety net of some sort of compensation for when these planks fuck up, as they will – inevitably – do.

Whilst the UK population – if not necessarily the government – supports the idea of a Plank Tax for politicians, some are concerned that – in a typical EU way – there is the chance of the tax spreading to other areas.

As one tax specialist put it:

Here in the UK we do produce a great many of the EU’s most vacuous celebrities, most of which are thick enough to come under the EU’s standard 2 Short Planks measure used to calculate this tax. So there is a possibility that some of celebrities would move out of the EU altogether - providing their PA can point them at the right airport Departure door, that is – thus depriving the EU of this potential income.

Now, while many of us would like to see all these brain-dead ‘celebrities’ out of the country – and our lives – we should remember the danger that the TV companies and gossip mag producers will probably replace them with something much, much worse.

So, don’t say you weren’t warned.

He went on to point out that with the education system in the UK the way it is after 13 years of the Labour government cocking it up in every way imaginable (and then some), the vast majority of younger working people could find themselves liable to pay this tax too.

Not only that, such sectors as the Computer Retail Industry, Call Centres and other such businesses could find that most of their staff are liable for the Plank Tax as well.

Furthermore, such a Plank Tax could have other wider implications, as the tax specialist reminded us:

Just think what devastation this Plank Tax could cause in UK sport! For example with a punitive Plank Tax applied in football to the typical English player, if the worst came to the worst, we could have a situation where Premier League football teams field almost no indigenous UK players in their line-ups…. Oh.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Not To Know The Wot Of

The effluvia of our despondency oscillates through this universe like the quivering and trembling of a pensioner about to enter a Senior Citizens Orgy in the village hall for the first time that season. But we grow to live with despair as we grow to live with those annoying sort of neighbours who are a bit too perfect to be quite natural, and are – we often suspect – some sort of alien species masquerading as human, or some deep-cover covert agents of some antagonistic foreign power. No-one – we insist – should have such a perfectly-manicured lawn in that exact shade found only ever on the illustrating photographs on garden product packaging. Perfection is always suspicious… and deeply, deeply galling.
But beyond the lightly-marmaladed traffic wardens of all our deepest fantasies there lies a dark hollow place that we prefer not to know the wot of, or even if the dark undefined undulating shades that cower there are really the well-lubricated small furry mammals, or even the fleecy–coated domesticated ruminant mammals of our even deeper fantasies.
On the other hand, is it just something we ate a bit too late before retiring for the night with a nice hot cake shop manageress?

Monday, May 24, 2010

Somer is y-comen in


Various badger-related incidents, indifferent and otherwise have kept us very busy over the last few weeks. It has resulted in me, personally, having to undergo the ordeal of interviewing several nubile young ladies for the post of Indifferent Badger Procurement Assistant as the newly-purchased machine has been working to full capacity, and has - therefore - meant a return to the more traditional methods in order to keep on top of the situation.

Luckily, the badger indifference season is almost over, that is if summer does actually arrive this year (July 27th has been confidently predicted to be this year's day of summer, again, by the village's expert weather predictors). So, quite soon then the badgers will begin to think about taking their summer holidays. Consequently, over the next few weeks the woodland paths and meadow walks will - once again - be festooned with discarded holiday brochures. This means - for us - much more work, for should an errant recently-discarded holiday brochure happen to be blown into the hairstylist pens then there is a very serious risk of a stampede as the hairstylists all rush to be first with the brochure. This could, of course, result in the disaster of chipped nail varnish, smeared make-up or even ruined hairstyles, which could set back our hairstylist breeding programme by several weeks, as the injured hairstylists build up the courage to be seen out in public once again.

So, if you are out in the countryside over the next few weeks and you see any discarded holiday brochures blowing in the wind, do the local hairstylist breeders a favour and put it in one of the many receptacles provided for such purposes. Thank you.

Friday, May 21, 2010

The Disasters of Desire


There's something like time in the cupboard. An elephant stands alone. I dream of pork chops, and you, there, in the tinned goods aisle. I have seen the naked soles of your feet and kissed your elbows. My underpants know, only too well, the disasters of desire. I am, and forever will be, your eggcup.

Take my hand and we will run through shopping malls together, laughing at improbable chins and Christmas present knitwear. We will kiss in front of the stone-clad faces behind the make-up counters. We will turn them back into statues.

Together we will go far from these places where we exist only beneath brand names, and head out into the green of this once pleasant land. Go to a place that doesn't need a logo, that doesn't need either of us to buy into its myths and dreams.

You, you will be there, nude on a pogo-stick, reciting the Seven Pillars of Software Engineering, while I try to place a single chocolate-coated raisin into your navel. You could so easily be the one, that one woman who knows the secret of how to arouse a man whilst wearing only green wellies.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Nothing Happens

Thursday, and it is one of those days where -with a regularity that is both startling and inevitable - nothing happens. Not that - these days - we are that keen on the unexpected, it does after all and almost by definition mean that some awkwardness is about to result from its intrusion.


Back when we were young, and able to get beyond page 37 of the Kama-Sutra without medical assistance, we used to long for days of excitement, glamour and full-frontal extreme rudeness. But, of course, it rarely, if ever happened, and with a phlegmatic pragmatism that seems somewhat lacking in the youngsters of the majority of post-war generations, we settled for a life of mundane tedium and extreme and exotic sexual perversions.

However, there are times - usually at those times of reverie when lubricating the weasels, or putting our local Post Office counter staff into the tupping restraints - when a life of glamour and excitement does seem quite appealing, even though we know deep down that it is all shallow and meaningless.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

The Indecent Use Of Cucumber Sandwiches

The purple reindeers of your sad Wednesday afternoon are once more creeping slowly across the Axeminster of your fully-furnished dreams. Poised on the edge of your carpet, they wait for the merest indication that you will place the tin of baked beans next to the games console for one finale time, before heading off to examine the grouting between your bathroom tiles.

We have sat together comparing our wallpaper swatches and moistened the tips of each other’s right index fingers with our dreams of naked cavorting on the underlay of our most erotic dreams that don’t – for once – entail the explicit and indecent use of cucumber sandwiches to achieve mutual satiation.


But still we dance like bewildered okapis through the High street shopping centres of our long lost Thursday afternoons of the soul and think – once again – on the times when we dunked each other’s genitalia in the sherry trifle off our undying love.

Even now I know – dear heart – that you cannot stand naked in the same room as a jar of lemon marmalade without blushing. Still, what is done is done and what has been more than adequately marmaladed remains more than adequately marmaladed, except – of course – during the winter when an additional coat of creosote may be contemplated.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Morris Dancing Worries

Anyway, here is the thing that I didn't mention the other day. You will, therefore, know little or nothing about what it is, or what it is used for, and - consequently - why Maureen often has that particular satisfied smile on her face on certain days.

But, if you don't know what this thing is, then I may as well just put it back in the drawer. I'm sure that a person of your intelligence, wit and experience* has no need to know of such things, anyway.

Anyway, so what shall we do now, then, eh?


Here we are standing at the very edge of the woods. The recent rain has left the ground very soft, so it is relatively easy to spot the spoor of the feral banjos and wild accordions that still infest these woods, despite the herd of folk singers we bought in, in an attempt to control their numbers. Luckily, there is still little sign of the folk singers actually organising a folk festival as they'd threatened, and we originally feared.

So, for the time being at least there is little danger of any sudden outbreak of Morris Dancing to scare the free-range hairstylists, who have little comprehension of any form of dance that doesn't involve ear-bleeding volume, strobe lights and handbags on the floor.


*And why else would you be here? For this place has little or nothing to offer for those so sadly lacking in such qualities.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

The Rural Perversion Tournament

Here, hold this badger racquet, while I move slightly widdershins of the lamppost before attaching the 12 reindeer-compatible grommiting points to the underwater ukulele harness.


It is sometimes hard, but then a lady such as yourself should be well use to that sort of thing by your age, sometimes to get the village green set up for a full-on rural perversion tournament. This is especially true when there is – like today – a nip in the air, which threatens to cool down the cake shops ladies’ baps as soon as they whip them out and expose them to the unseasonable weather. In such a case, as I’m sure you are aware, it is incumbent on the men standing ready to apply a fresh warm coating to each lady’s baps as soon as they are proffered towards the waiting menfolk.

Anyway, onward and upward, as the vicar said to the campanologist he caught admiring his bell tower, let us go and see what is happening in the village hall where the two competing perversion tournament teams are getting ready to mount up for some stiff prodding of each other’s defences.

Perhaps this year we will be able to see another eye-watering display of tactical finesse by last year’s champions – the Strap-on sisters – whose masterful outflanking of the Little Frigging yeomanry enabled them to catch the men unaware, and fully penetrate the men’s position in the rear to bring about an overwhelming victory for the Little Frigging Ladies team.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Adjusting The Brakes On A Morris Marina


Still as the helicopter of your desire hovers over the rooftops of all the small rural villages of our longing to place small bouquets of early spring freesias into the exposed navels of all the community outreach officers of our souls, our thoughts – quite naturally – turn to our mutual need to watch the national weather forecast whilst clutching Belgian buns close to our fully benuded throbbing parts.

Now, it is not often said - especially by those whose first language is not total bollocks – that you can’t adjust the brakes on a Morris Marina without first donning the patterned tank top and flowery shirt of a true man of the 1970s. But I have seen the dawn as the sun rises above the satellite dishes of all we hold dear, and know that a small tin of anchovy fillets can often be substituted for the Morris Marina without causing any undue chafing of the inner thigh, or an unsightly rash on your social worker.

However, bearing this in mind and also being more than ready to make a frank appraisal of your full-frontal nudity now that my resolve has stiffened, let us go hand-in-hand and as naked as nature intended and explore the pet food isle of our very own local Tesco once more.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Nudity And Flower-Power Wellies

Come on darling, let us go – you and I – and completely re-fruit pastille the patio like we did back in the summer of ’72, that never to be forgotten time of flared nudity and flower-power wellies.

Oh, we had cheese too, but we never let the firemen see the gladioli, even if there was margarine spread over the stockbroker. But that was the autumn after the summer of love and so we never thought about what would become of the zebra finches once the marmalade jar was empty.


Still, though, you have to… er… thing… don’t you?

Don’t you?


Ah, right then….

So, do you want to get the Ludo board out while I oil up the penguins then?

Or shall we skip hand in hand through the discarded burger wrappers and pizza boxes to go watch the sun set over the traffic wardens, once again?

Friday, May 7, 2010

Erotic Marmalade

Well, fondle my marzipan and call me a tadpole, have you ever… I mean, ever seen such a glockenspiel like that. I mean, come on be honest…. I bet you’ve never horizontally-tangoed with anyone else with such an enviable collection of cheese graters have you?

You have….



In that case I stand corrected* and humbly offer you this jar of erotic marmalade in lieu of compensation as well as a free rummage through my bejewelled orgying shorts a week on Thursday, so make a note in your diary. I find E flat is usually more than adequate, although I have known some people swear by A sharp, but they were mere double-glazing salesmen, so you can imagine the state of their cheeseboards, I’m sure.

So, anyway, there we were nasturtiums at the ready, when who do you think brought his cashbook in for a full reconciliation?

I’ll tell you….

Only the bloke who stood next to that woman who was in that advert for that stuff you get in the jars from a discreet local emporium in a plain brown wrapper, that’s who.

I can tell be the way your eyes glazed over then, that you were more than a little impressed.

If you let me stand closer, I could impress you more.

Yes, it is supposed to stick out like that**.


*Which is not easy in these underpants.

**See above.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Something Of A Preamble

You may very well be some kind of semi-professional arranger of artichokes for the perusal and delectation of porpoises, but that cuts no ice here in the rural heartland of this great and noble country. It is the stout yeomen of this Fair Isle who – throughout history – have proved to be a bunch of awkward bastards. All seemingly spending most of their waking hours – when not putting themselves on the outside of as many pies and pints of ale as the human body can manage – coming up with more and more suitably arcane methods of becoming complete pains in the arse of all and sundry, especially those that like to think they are ‘in charge’.


One of the great strengths of the British is their reluctance to be bossed around, not just by those who think they have a divine right to rule, but also by those who think that those who believe they have such a divine right should be – forcibly, if possible – disabused of any such notion, preferably with the aid of hot pokers.

Now, I am sure you are wondering what this has to do with rural perversions.


I’m glad you asked me that, because all of the above serves as something of a preamble in order to keep your attention diverted as we applying the tupping harness to the cake shop manageress and begin to apply warm butter to the social worker in readiness for today’s pre-election orgy in the village hall, where all local parliamentary candidates are invited to take part in a traditional full Pineapple Inquiry, the survivor of which wins the votes of all the denizens of Little Frigging eligible to vote, and who can manage to extract themselves from the orgy before the polling booth set up at the University of Little Frigging’s Law Studies Faculty (formerly the pig sty) closes for the evening.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

A Little Sore Just Above The Left Elbow

Your osteopath may very well be called Norman, but that doesn’t give you the right to keep all the shuttlecocks within your kitchen cupboard, at least not when some of us have taken it upon ourselves to read bedtime stories to the penguins you left in the waiting room on that one particular Thursday.


Now, I know you like to polish your banjo whilst sitting naked in the centre of the fresh fruit and vegetable aisle of your local supermarket, but there have been questions asked about your true musical abilities and the state of your expense claims. Was it really necessary to that with the pineapple and the baronet, especially without a suitable lubricating agent or even a signed photograph of Val Doonican? I know you have a thing about goats, but that is just taking a bit too far, especially whilst wearing that particular cardigan.

Once we knew all the names of the lupins that gathered around d the path to our scullery door, but now the wainscoting grows faded and our vestibule is no longer as pristine as it was in the days of the leather kangaroo annoying harness you used to wear when mucking out the lawyer sties.

However, I still keep that particular liquorice toffee in the special jar, as you taught me all those years ago, and still my knees have not throbbed when in the presence of a dairymaid, like they used to. For that I will always be grateful, if a little sore just above the left elbow.