Wednesday, June 30, 2010

The Ever-Present Dangers Of A Cheese Stampede

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[The dangers of a cheese stampede are clearly visible in this photo of the catastrophic pile up caused by cheeses allowed to run wild]

Now, from the way you are surreptitiously oiling your black leather TV engineer fetish harness of choice, I can see we are going to have to speak of the best way of approaching cheese out in the wild. I am sure that you – as a regular peruser of my splendid organ – are no doubt quite adept at approaching the domesticated cheese, especially during a typical cheese and wine orgy at your local village hall.

However, approaching a cheese out in the wild, especially when not wearing the bejewelled orgy cape and sandpaper-lined thong of a well-seasoned village-orgy goer, is not without it own very particular peculiarities, especially in the vexed area of stance-adoption.

In which case I can only warn you that full many a person has been caught out by adopting the stance of an itinerant banjo-polisher whilst approaching a untamed Wensleydale and been surprised at the vehemence of the cheese’s response, especially if they approached the cheese downwind of the jar of pickled onions.

Sometimes, afterwards, all that remains are a few cracker crumbs and a small remnant of a semi-polished banjo for the poor distraught widow to grieve over before being forced to seek solace in the arms of the nearest local village blacksmith.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Hairstylist Stampede Averted

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Right, well… er… then. Here we are then… aren’t we on this… this… well – to be honest - rather mediocre day. I don’t know about you – apart from what I’ve read in your file, of course – but today I’m not entirely sure I can be arsed.

We had rather a busy day yesterday, a number of the hairstylists had been surreptitiously sniffing the styling mousse, and thus emboldened had begun tearing down the fence in the Upper Lower field in attempt to escape into the woods and then on to the nearest town centre and its copious late-night drinking establishments and clubs.

Luckily, though, one of the semi-domesticated lawyers we use for hairstylist herding noticed what was afoot and set legal proceedings in motion almost immediately*. Both I, and Old Feebletrousers, alerted by the smell of litigation in the air, were on the scene less than a tea-break, or two, later, just in time to prevent a mass breakout by the hairstylists.

 

*In real time, not lawyer time. One of the hardest things in attempting to (semi) domesticate a lawyer is weaning it away from lawyer time (which is 1/700th the speed of normal human time) and getting the beast to function at a speed something approaching normal.

Monday, June 28, 2010

The Almost-Interesting Lifecycle Of Lawyers

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Now, as you have seemingly adopted the stance of a Welsh canteen manageress about to plug a weasel into the mains, let us pause for a moment, adjust our fetish gear and – for once – consider the possible consequences of our actions.

Done that?

Good.

Let us - then – sally forth and – if she is in still in the mood sally fifth as well* -and go and have a look at the young tad-lawyers as they begin to approach maturity down in the lawyer-breeding swamps at the top end of the lower upper pasture. Those of you strong-stomached enough to be familiar with the breeding habits of lawyers will already have girded your loins** in readiness. Still, that can’t be helped now, so just keep on using the ointment as directed and the soreness will begin to fade by the end of the week.

Now we are here I feel that I should point out some of the more interesting features of the tad-lawyers and their almost-interesting lifecycle. But – to be honest - I can’t be arsed.

Good-bye.

 

*Providing we take precautions against chafing and incipient soreness of the nether regions.

** Not - of course – to be confused with girding your lions – as you should well know the girding grommets on the underside of the lion will be inaccessible at this time of the year.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Little-Frigging-In-The-Wold Summer Fayre

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As it happens, now then, Guys and gals. Now then…. How's about that, then…? Now then….

Er… excuse me a moment….

Ah, that's better.

A sudden outbreak of the Jimmy Saviles there, I'm afraid. I do get these relapses occasionally, especially when I forget to take my anti-Savile pills for a day or two.

Anyway, as it hap…. Sorry, the pills will kick in soon.

Right.

As I was saying, today is a very special day indeed. For today is the opening day of the Little-Frigging-In-The-Wold Summer Fayre week. Today is the day when we farming folk unveil - to an expectant public - just what we have been up to in our secretive private sheds, fields and allotments that has kept us away, evening after evening, from our homes, hearths and loved ones (and - quite often - our families too) over the preceding months.

Putting all false modesty aside (you too, just put your clothes on the pile there, on top of mine) I do have a reputation to keep up. I have - of course - won the 'Most Buxom Hairstylist of the Year' award for the last seven years running*. Also, I have consistently finishing in the top three of the 'Most Nubile Hairstylist of the Year' for the last seventeen years, winning first place in ten of those seventeen years.

So I think it is safe to say that I am a force to be reckoned with in the - admittedly, rather specialised - field of show hairstylist breeding.

Of course, it is not just these 'Best of breed' competitions that will take place at the Fayre. There will - as usual - several displays by the Little-Frigging-In-The-Wold Open-Air Orgy Display Team, an 'All-Nude Orienteering and Woodland Sexual Perversions' contest, 37 beer tents, 546 cider tents and a mobile chip van.

So all-in-all, a splendid day out for all the family, especially the very thirsty ones.

 

*well - to be accurate - running, walking and standing still.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Hunting Season Begins

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And so begins the commencement of the initialisation of the start of the hunting season. Feral stockbrokers and wild city dealers will be emerging from their weekend country cottages and rural retreats all over the countryside as the summer holiday season gets under way - often in their rural camouflage of wax jacket, flat cap and green wellies - and uttering their weird ululations as they scour the countryside for gullible breeding partners.

It is sad, but necessary, that these interlopers be culled, mainly for the well-being of other country-dwellers, before they do manage to breed and before they contaminate more of this green and pleasant land with their strange unnatural city ways.

Soon, if their pernicious attitudes are allowed to spread unchecked, such traditional country activities as animal 'husbandry', the fleecing of gullible tourists and marriage between siblings will go the way of witch ducking and Wicker Estate Agent Immolation. Truly, it will be another sad day and a great loss for the countryside traditions and yet another attack on our rural way of life.

If such influxes of alien life forms do not go unchecked then soon there will be no difference between urban and rural, and then where will we be?

I'll tell you, all living in cities, that's what, and that's no life for a real man and/or woman and/or those yet to decide.

You mark my words*.

 

*Out of ten, please.

Friday, June 18, 2010

But, Seriously

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Now we adopt the stances of bewildered computer chain-store shop assistants as we stare uncomprehendingly at the plethora of goods spread out before us while attempting to re-arrange our limited set of stock responses into a form that may somehow vaguely correspond to the question so recently poised by our current interlocutor.

But, taking all that as read, did you bring the raspberries?

I know it is not quite yet the time of Time and Marmoset Management, that one night of the year when the midnight hour is haunted by the departed souls of those who died inadequately-insured, moaning and howling in their never-ending torment as the Insurance Salesmen of the Netherworlds torture their immortal souls. So, it may be a good idea to get at least one extra loaf in as some of them might want sandwiches.

Anyway, now that you are here, I see that the camels need a fresh undercoat. So if you could just touch them up a bit, and after that do some undercoating… ha ha ha.

But, no, seriously. Let's do something a bit more interesting today.

How about…?

Oh, bugger, the handle has just fallen off.

Ah, well. Maybe some other day, then?

Thursday, June 17, 2010

The Inherent Dangers Of Fundamentalism

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The obverse implications of illegitimate lettuce arrangement in an erotic context is – of course – a concern to all of us who take a deep interest in the perverse arts. There has been much talk – most of it, as usual, ill-informed speculation in the media of late as to whether it is, indeed, legitimate to speak of lettuce in an erotic context at all.

To those of us of a more mature cast of mind, such a concept is almost unbelievable. For how can people still be taking such an attitude or stance in this day and age? It is almost as if they wish to ally themselves with, or number themselves among, those troglodytes who still cling to such risible positions as the denial of evolution, or occupy some other such place of manifest ignorance.

For – as we all know – religion and its narrow, ignorant, worldviews belongs back in the callow infancy of humankind, back with tales of dragons, ghosts and other such anthropomorphism of the natural world.

Therefore, all and any strictures, made on a religious basis, against the sensual use of lettuce in an erotic context - especially the use of cos - between consenting adults during the hours of darkness, can be seen as empty and pointless at best.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Seagull Watching

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But my spatula is indifferent to the fate of the Brazilian Toast-Surveyors, even if they do pose naked on the calendars of all the chiropodists in Tewksbury.

You may laugh, but I know all the secrets of your cutlery drawer, and why you adopt that stance when in the presence of trainee hairdressers.

Now, we have a certain quantity of string and we are no longer afraid to reveal its whereabouts to the authorities, even though the licence we have is out of date.

You think you know?

You think you understand?

She may be the naked and well-oiled table-tennis champion of your dreams, but do you really know what she gets up to in the dead of the night with those Ordinance Survey maps, the cucumber sandwiches and the entire membership of her local amateur rugby union team?

However, we do not possess identical donkeys, or have knees that have touched royalty, so maybe we can go down to the sea today to point at the seagulls one final time.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Faintly, of Cheese

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So, time to begin. Are we all sitting comfortably, aardvarks not too tight? I know it can be awkward this time of the year when chins and elbows run with sweat… er… rain.

We were young and we wore trousers like there was no tomorrow, but we were wrong about that. Now we have only cheese… cheese, and those memories. Shall I wear the vest again? You could light the candles.

I could have been just as Norwegian as any professional badger organiser. I could have jumped high in the air, happy as any salesman in a strawberry field, if only, if only I'd seem that armadillo dancing at midnight.

Shall I get the eggs out? We could dance until dawn. I already have the spatula prepared. We could dance down these streets, laughing at curtains and smiling sweetly at every vicar we meet. I shall become a shop assistant and wear flowers in my underpants.

Now it is Tuesday again and I must bend over for you. I see the broom handle is already lubricated, and you are wearing the traffic warden uniform.

One day we will look back on this and it will seem like any other Tuesday that smelt, faintly, of cheese.

Monday, June 14, 2010

I Blog Therefore I Am

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But even if the helicopters of your desire are hovering over the open fields of perversion just like the way grapefruits don’t hang over the exposed navel piercings of recumbent trainee nursing assistants lying in urban parks during the lunch hour, we will still have our sex spatulas at the ready for when the cost accountants come calling in the moonlight of an early summer evening.

I know you will have already regarded the above as … well… just the usual, but I must plead a slight feeling of being below par at the moment, which is preventing my ascension to the usual heights of eloquence I usually stumble towards here on the upper slopes of what has become known as the blogospherical ponderthon.

For – in this what has become our modern world can anything be said to truly exist unless it has appeared, or been commented upon, in at least one blog? Things it seems become more real dependent upon how many blogs make reference to them. If you – gentle reader – do not appear in a blog post then you – to all intents and porpoises – do not exist.

Therefore, it makes me wonder why on earth I’m bothering to talk to you. Consequently, I’ll wish you good day and ask you not to inconvenience me by non-existing around here - and getting under my feet when I’m so busy - in future.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Vibrating Donkey Annoyance Device

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It just so happens that I do have my spanners with me today. I even have the manual for the Vibrating Donkey Annoyance device in the back of the van. So, today is - quite possibly - your lucky day, providing I do have the spares, of course.

Now, I don't usually carry spares for Vibrating Donkey Annoyance devices because - believe it or not - they don't go wrong that often. Besides, these days, there doesn't seem much call for them. On the relatively few occasions people do discover an infestation of Vibrating Donkeys in their wainscoting, they do seem to be very unwilling to further annoy them.

I suppose it is all down to the increasing urbanisation of British life. Not only are relatively harmless rural pursuits such as fox hunting, sheep 'husbandry', chicken intriguing and estate Agent Immolation looked upon with uncomprehending disdain, but whole areas of mindless slaughter of wildlife have now been made illegal, often by people who have never been in the countryside, let alone felt the thrill of a sheep's back legs down the inside of their wellies.

Soon, it seems, children will grow up thinking that food comes only in packets, boxes and tins, and that the countryside is a rather poorly-maintained and rather tedious theme park, and that sex is only possible between members of the same species.

That will be - I'm sure you'll all agree - a very sad day for this country. A country that has always prided itself on its close contact with, and understanding of, the natural world, and - quite often - which bits of it are good for having sex with.

It is - therefore - high time for this trend to be reversed before it is all too late and we become a nation of iPod-mollified urban trendies utilising the stances of trainee marketing executives with both pointlessly elaborate hairstylings and overly-foolish trousers.

Friday, June 4, 2010

A Sudden Sharp Knee To The Groin

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Well, tickle my radish and call me a Social Worker! Never in all my days have I heard such a thing. I just don't know, any more. Fancy asking a man of the world - or, at least, Bromsgrove and environs - such as me about Naked Stamp Collecting.

I have never been so embarrassed*. I just didn't know where to look.

Luckily, though, she had quite a splendid cleavage on display, so I thought it would be impolite not to stare. However, it is possible that my offer to wipe my drool off her magnificent frontage was - quite possibly - a little too forward considering the brief nature of our relationship.

It is funny, though, how a sudden sharp knee to the groin can often say far more than mere words can.

Still, as I lay on the ground desperately trying to get enough air into my lungs to enable me to moan in agony, even from my prone position, I could see - as she strode away from me - that she had the legs of an Estate Agent. So, all things considered, it was a very lucky escape for me, saving me from making yet another expensive mistake.

 

*Except, of course, that time with the weasel and the tin of rice pudding on the golf course.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

The Stuff Of Legend

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In those wild and heady days of pre-decimalised Britain, Malevolence Toastdiseases became the UK's most infamous hairstylist rustler. With his gang of wild, and Wensleydale cheese-crazed, psycho-badgers, Toastdiseases cut a swathe of terror right across the wide-open prairies of Bilston. It seemed - at that time - that no herd of hairstylists, no matter how seemingly well-protected, was safe from the attentions of Toastdiseases and his gang.

However, his arch-nemesis of that time was the now almost legendary policeman, and putative freelance amateur chiropodist, Constable Reindeer Kerplunk. It was Kerplunk's frantic midnight bicycle ride through the wild lawless streets of Willenhall in hot pursuit of Toastdiseases, the psycho-badgers and a rustled herd of terrified keening and wailing hairstylists that has now - indeed - become the stuff of legend, tall stories, bar-room tales, poems and PhD theses, as well as two very forgettable and - with hindsight - ill-judged Eurovision Song Contest entries.

The final showdown between Toastdiseases and Constable Kerplunk - which was later immortalised as The Battle of Tesco's Car Park in the Hollywood film of that title - is now etched firmly in the consciousness of all British people. It takes its place alongside other such legendary historical events such as the Battle of Britain, The Spanish Armada, the Bradford Kneecap Incident, the World Cup 1966, and that woman who got her baps out on that live TV programme a few years back.

We all know, of course, how it ended on that fateful afternoon in that supermarket car park. It would be pointless to go over it all again here, except to say that there is now a general consensus that justice was - indeed - done that day. Although, the use of wooden spoons and Battenberg cake in such a manner has now been outlawed by United Nations decree, it is widely felt that Toastdiseases got no more than he deserved. From that day onward, it seems, the scourge of large-scale organised hairstylist rustling was at an end throughout the British Isles.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

In A State Of Not Undress

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Right. Here we are then. Or not. Be that as it may. Or may not. Indecision is a… sort of… one of those things that is a bit… sort of… indecisive at the best of times… or not, depending. That’s often the way it is though, except, of course, when it is not.

Be that as it may, it is time for us to move on to other matters of a more rude and, hopefully, moister nature. It has come to my attention that certain readers of this… this… er… whatever it is are doing so in a state of not undress.

Now, far be it from me to wish to dictate how, when, where or who or what with anyone else goes about whatever it is they are going about, providing of course, no-one else is harmed, injured or made to suffer the indignity of an itchy knee.

But, having said that (and I did, I just checked), it does seem somewhat perverse to go about matters of a perverse nature without being perverse about it, even if it is only to dress up as a financial advisor immediately prior to applying lime jelly to the erogenous zones of any fully-consensual adult badger in one’s immediate vicinity.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Complex Equations

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Goats are exploding across the universe of my dreams. There are underpants in the night.

Will you ever?

Could you ever?

Now there are farmyard animals doing complex equations in the classroom of your nightmares. How else could we calibrate the exchange rate policy of our darkest most secret desires? But, still, we have the photographs now.

Helicopters?

There are helicopters here and you are naked again. But, at least this time I have remembered the gravy.

Toast - that is the word we must never mention…. Oh, bugger.

The clock ticks as we stare across the seas, waiting for the brown things to turn green once again. Here, hold my marshmallow until the itch subsides.

One day we will be able to return to the land of our breakfast cereals.

"Did you ever?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"No."

"Ah.". Therefore I have no choice but to pronounce you guilty."

"It's a fair cop."

And everyone lived happily ever after. Except the peasants of course. But no-one really cared about them, so it didn't matter very much. After a few year though (hardly, 'ever after' - but what is these days?) they got fed up with each other and started to look around again.