Friday, July 30, 2010

Notwithstanding

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[Maureen Writes:]

Notwithstanding is an unfortunate situation for any gentleman of a perverse inclination to find himself in, especially when one’s lady - or gentleman – friend (or friends) have gone to the trouble of accommodating one’s particular interest, deviation, fetish or perversion. For there is nothing quite like the feeling of empty foolishness of standing there dressed as a fondant fancy, traffic warden or supply geography teacher, especially when the person who one has gone to the trouble of trying to stimulate shows no inclination at all. It is deeply disappointing to therefore find one’s putative partner notwithstanding, no matter how adept one’s ministrations or uncanny ability to perform a deeply erotic mime of a penguin shopping for Brussels sprouts in a Norwegian street market early on a Tuesday morning.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

The First Open-Air Village Orgy Of The Summer

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Now is the time for you to put your stoats back I the vestibule, especially if your cream cakes are laid out and awaiting all the other attendees at the first open-air village orgy of the summer. Of course, it goes without saying that the cheese should be pre-sliced as there is always a danger of slippage especially when so many of the attendees are liberally besmeared with the orgiastic unguents of their choice. This is why always why it is advisable to put the cocktail sticks into the sausages before any gentlemen attendees start to saunter around the buffet table investigating what the catering ladies have left out for them to sample.

Having made sure that all the various tastes of your attendees can be satiated by what the catering ladies have spread out on the tables before them, everything all moist and ready for the gentlemen visitors to apply their cream to. Then it is time to move on to check out the various sideshows and diversions, such as the lady’s Hoopla stall where some of the most prominently upstanding men of Little Frigging will be issuing a challenge to the ladies to see which of the ladies can lob the most rings over the gentleman of her choice. A warning to the any lady wishing to make an attempt to be there early as the ladies queuing for a turn with Strom Thighhammer can often become very long indeed, as – of course – so can Strom

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

The Uncle Of The Gods

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Ah, but Maureen, our Helicopters of Desire have grown so purple now. The days of their yellowness are little more than legends now. Tales told around fires as the night's blankets cover all of our darkest fears.

One day, one day, my love, I, too, will wear the underpants of a warrior and stride fearlessly across the wide-open spaces of supermarket car parks as I hunt for the rare Balsamic Vinegar of the Uncle of the Gods.

I too have tasted those sweet marsupials of the night.

I too have stood naked outside the chip shop at closing time, asking each and every customer if they too can smell penguins. They are there… somewhere… I know. I have heard them whispering together in the shadows, making unflattering remarks about our hairstyles.

I have wandered these mean streets until I stopped. Then I had some tea. Then I went out again and wandered these mean streets a bit more. That is until it got a bit nippy. So now, anyway, I know the secrets that lie deep inside the disposable nappies.

Here we sit around our photograph of a roaring fire, waiting, waiting for the Dawn, and wondering where she has got to now, and will the chips be cold by the time she returns.

Still, still, we are haunted by that eternal question that has plagued humankind right from the beginning of time and consciousness: will she have remembered the salt and vinegar?

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

The Demons of Advertising

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Once upon a time, you dressed so fine and went on holiday to Aberystwyth with your ‘special friend’ from the accounts department of your local crime syndicate. It was there at the now almost legendary Aberystwyth Stoat Collective you began you long slow decent into Business Studies and other such perversions of all that is natural and good about sex between man, woman, and several small furry mammals liberally coated in the lubricant of your choice.

Now, having said that (and I did check, it was – indeed – me speaking), it is time to move on and examine the compatibility of our nether regions, for today is that special day when we must take a firm grip on our grouting trowels and head off into the sunset. Fortunately, sunset is getting earlier at this time of the year, so you will have no feeble excuses about the immanence of your bedtime… again.

Once we arrive at the appointed place, and we have anointed ourselves, and any nearby recalcitrant badgers, with the appropriate unguents and fastened the devices to the special places we can begin the ceremony of Exercising the Demons of Advertising from all our favourite television sets, satellite receivers, cable boxes, digital set top boxes and other such devices.

The Demons of Advertising are such wily beasts, capable of insinuating themselves deep within all the technology we hold precious in order to subvert our very thought processes into channels they can control and direct in order to encourage us to fill up our already o’er brimmed lives with even more unnecessary stuff.

Unless we do our solemn duty and regularly disinfect, fumigate and protect our precious things of the electronic entertainments then they, then we, will once more fall under the spell of these evil demons.

Monday, July 26, 2010

The Naked Traffic Warden and the Trifle

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The tadpoles are laughing at us, Maureen, and the large unwieldy device you used to organise the arrangement of our store of pickled onions lies slowly rusting at the back of the garage.

What has become of us?

Where has the magic gone from our lives?

Once we used to stay up late into the night, sometimes as late as seventeen minutes past nine, talking passionately of the uses for home-made rhubarb crumble and tabulating the amount of custard we used each week.

But now we sit here, each in our own chair, silently watching the TV muttering its own peculiar inanities to itself. Neither of us able to overcome the inertia long enough to curtail its empty ramblings.

You sit there quietly knitting penile restraints while I carefully lubricate several of the smaller furry mammals, but both of us know - deep down - that the naked traffic warden poised so artfully upon the trifle-strewn dining table in the far corner of the room waits in vain for us to begin the machinations.

Soon the clock will strike nine and it will be time to put the light out on this forlorn scene once again.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Blatant Naked Chin Stroking

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Let us not tarry to speak of full-frontal pondering and blatant naked chin stroking when there are matters afoot that will take us down the darkest alleys of sordid perversion that it has ever been your misfortune to know the wot of. I speak, of course, of fully-consensual toast ignoring and hot-buttered crumpet bondage.

Those of you (both) who have lead sheltered lives probably know little of the depths of depravity that humankind can sink to. You were probably brought up in respectable households where sexual perversion was seen in its true nature as something naughty, moist and pretty good fun for those who freely engage in it, providing there is plenty of marmalade, of course.

However, some people – often through no fault of their own – live poor sad lives bereft of the healing powers of a good chunky marmalade. There are even people for whom toast is not an ever-present reassuring presence in their lives. There are even some who have no knowledge of the delights of the toaster or even the grill in their poor wasted lives.

On the other hand, though, such people are not our problem and – therefore - their problems are not our problems either.

So – in future - let us speak only of moister things.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Over-Officious Poking

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There are small rotund officials poking the ends of their official ballpoints into the very minutia of our lives whilst we sit and gawp at alleged celebrities pointlessly propelling each other around in an overly be-sequined manner and our days drip down the drains like a thawing snowman built in a suntrap.

Still, though, we will always have asparagus… and Luton. Luton and asparagus, how those two words together like that can still make my elbows blush and my knees throb. I don’t think I will ever be able to forget the sight of you dressed as a over-sexed Welsh water-diviner and the way you balanced those eggcups on your nipples.

However, now our days are filled with dread as the over-officious poke themselves into our lives intent on reclassifying all our petunias as miscellaneous deep-sea diving gear as per the most exacting and demanding of the latest EU directives that have been imposed upon us without us even having a clue as to why or how.

But hark, my little shinpad, listen to how the gulls cry as they gyre above the wave-washed beaches of our lives, one day – they seem to say – one day there will be ice-cream aplenty once more as the sun fills our days with summer and you will wear that bikini and the peep-hole bobble hat once again as we go paddling in our seas of possibilities still to come.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Belgian Telephone Directory

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Who are you, and what is your favourite washing-machine spin-cycle?

We have laughed.

We have stopped laughing.

There is no place left now, to park our trilobites and hamsters are running wild all over our car parks. Donkeys play hopscotch on the minefields of all our moistest desires. For the umpteenth time, I have sliced your Dundee cake while you danced naked around the traffic warden.

What shall we do now? Our leisure centres have closed and our favourite pointing sticks are all broken. We have sellotaped our last remaining Social Worker to the coffee table and read the last seventeen pages of the Belgian Telephone Directory at her, whilst placing piles of loose change around her navel.

Now it is time to do something else instead.

Do you have any Lego bricks, Maureen?

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Whither Poultry-Perplexing?

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Granaryloaf Pottingshed was very much an old-style goose-mesmeriser, who looked down on Chicken-Intriguing as little more than an effete distraction when it came to poultry-perplexing. His long running feud with Gerrymander Ankletrouser on the best way to bewilder a pullet led to what many regard as the great schism in poultry-perplexation which prevented it from attaining its well-deserved place as one of the leading sports in the Olympic Games during the late 1970s.

However, there are many more (nearly six at the last count) who believe that its existence out of the limelight, away from the glare of the Olympic movement, has made poultry-perplexation far stronger as a sport than it would otherwise have been. It has, they believe allowed it to achieve its high standards of professionalism, both on and off the poultry-perplexing yards, as well as its ability to attract sponsorship and advertising revenues.

Chicken-Intriguing is – of course – the most popular form of poultry-perplexation, especially in its all-nude form. It is a discipline that has grown strong and powerful in its own right, with its hordes of devoted fans who will follow its leading practitioners to matches up and down the country. There are some though who argue, sometimes most forcibly, that it is this very all-nude aspect that prevents the discipline being taken as seriously as it should be by the Olympic federation and other such international (busy)bodies.

Be that as it may, however, it is the all-nude aspect of the discipline that has brought the crowds to the sport, especially those with a keen interest in amateur photography, and many believe it would be a mistake for the sport to turn its back on so many devoted fans by ditching its trademark all-nude aspect merely to satisfy the whims of the Olympic federation and other such entities, and instead continue on its own in much the same way as international football has done.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Official Perverting Hat

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Approaching a suitably-oiled dairy maid from the bowling end of the perversion pitch, especially under cover of an Official Perverting Hat, is something best left to those deviants of long standing, especially in the cooler weather of the high British summer when it has been known for the drizzle to become almost detectably warmer.

Now, should you be one of those poor unfortunates who has not had any access to an Official Perverting Hat, especially one that has been handed down (or more usually using tongs and some stout rubber gloves) through many a preceding generation with all the due diligence and ceremony such an onerous and richly symbolic a occurrence warrants.

For example, my own Official Perverting Hat was first worn by Perkin Trouseaux Le-Quandreiu in the first post-Norman Conquest village orgy in this locality, set up to reward Brave William the Bastard’s victorious troops for the sterling way they had given the Saxons, in William’s own words ‘a right good kicking’.

The Official Perverting Hat has – ever since - been passed down to generations of Trouser-Quandarys and is worn always – often with little else except a pair of regulation orgying wellies and EU-standard fetish mittens for the annual Little Frigging Late Summer orgy and dinner dance which is held to celebrate the immolation of the first hippie to be seen in Little Frigging as he made his way homeward from some early 1970s music festival.

Monday, July 12, 2010

The Seemingly Endless Perversions Of Summer

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Pause awhile – you may put the cucumber down and allow your post mistress to finish knitting her current row, before replacing the lid on the butter dish, if necessary – and consider the lily.

Done that…?

Good.

Now that Lily has got dressed again we can see about some of the more interesting, and – we hope – suitably – moist doings that can be accomplished using only the gently rolling British countryside, a pleasant summer afternoon and a picnic hamper overflowing with all sorts of marital aids, fetish clothing and other such accoutrements necessary for a good solid afternoon’s open-air perverting.

Now, of course, it almost goes without saying that no British summer open-air perversion afternoon is complete without the obligatory cucumber, and the strawberries too are regarded as vital by most connoisseurs. Although, after the last mass debate at the British Society of Perverteers and Allied Deviants annual conference last year, it was formally decided, by a majority vote, that the radish is no longer considered essential, except if a member of your perverting team is from another EU country – obviously.

Fresh cream is not as essential either, although some traditionalists believe that a gentleman should always offer to whip some out for the ladies present if they proffer their baps for the gentleman’s delectation.

For this reason too, a gentleman will always come to attention and offer himself should the lady in question be experiencing some difficult over where to place her pineapple rings (once she has them out of the tin, obviously).

However, the outdoor perverteer should always bear in mind what he or she is baring and always be on the lookout for wasps, ants, and other such creatures – such as the lesser-spotted busybody – that can bring chaos and consternation to even the most modestly organised all-village open-air orgy, picnic and strawberry-picking afternoon.

Friday, July 9, 2010

The Knees Of A Semi-Professional Stoat Auditor

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You may – indeed – have the knees of a semi-professional stoat auditor, but I have seen the state of your kitchen utensil drawer, so there is little of any great consequence you can impart to me about some of the great Western philosophers. However, should you make your case eloquently enough I may just concede that your knowledge of delphiniums may – one day – be of some use to humanity, especially when you stand out on the edge of the ring road clutching your carpet tile and mango sandwiches in such a beguiling manner.

We have seen so much together you and I, it would be a shame – at this stage in our relationship – if we let the paltry matter of your dalliances with a Latvian traditional elbow dancer and part-time structural engineer come between us. After all, he seems to know little of the dark and secret art of how to arrange his jars of jam in strict alphabetical order. I know how much it disquiets you when I make a mock of his preserve-arrangement skills. But you must ask yourself the question: would you, could you, ever be happy with someone so obvious far too lax in his placement of his home-made gooseberry jam?

Thursday, July 8, 2010

Fully-Consensual Over-Bananaing

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Now all fully-consensual over-bananaing of an assistant librarian will – of course – depend on just how often you invite the flamingos around for tea, except on bank holidays, obviously.

This should not mean than the fence will have to remain un-creosoted for the duration of the event, but it does mean that any under-utilised cream cakes can be used later once the postmistress has been adjusted for British Summer Time and her suspender belt meets all current EU orgiastic specifications.

Now, if you are bowling form the Northern end of the orgy pitch and into the wind, don’t forget that the weasel racquets will need re-aligning before the fireman gets his hose out ready for any outpourings that the ladies request during the interval and half-time fully-consensual gropings.

The lemon meringue, though, should not be foisted upon any lady present without a fully-notarised consent form being lodged with the adjudicator before the first Wednesday immediately prior to oiling the stockbroker, unless – of course – you want to have your underwear impounded by the Naughtiness Police (again).

However, once you show them that you have no ethical objections to attempting to bribe officers of the law going about their business in an attempt to influence the course of justice, then they should almost immediately let you go free with little more than a verbal warning about your state of undress and a moderate probing of your crevices as mandated by the local by-laws.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

In The Grip Of A Dairy Maid

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Now, a fully-consensual undertaking by any brace of dairy maids of your acquaintance to help you achieve a finer point to your proceedings is of course not something to ever gainsay. However, it should be borne in mind that dairy maids have – by dint of their many years experience of grappling with the under-hangings of a herd of dairy cows – something of a grip on them. So it would do you good to remember to always mind your manners, say please and – especially – thank you, in particularly when they have a firm grasp of your predicament.

It is a truth universally acknowledged – especially by Grand Uncle Stagnant, who has many, many years of experience in this field (That is, especially that bit of this field down by the river under the shade of the old oak tree) that there is no-one finer that you could wish for to handle your obligations than a brace of willing dairy maids, and that it is always a wise choice to place yourself fully into their hands for a mutually rewarding experience.

After all, it must be said that if you wish to have the top of your cream tasted by someone who is bound to take delight in your outpourings and to appreciate them with the taste of a connoisseur, then a dairy maid is – of course – the ideal choice.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

A Full Perusal By The Invigilator

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The underwear of your preponderancy is evident to all and sundry, especially when you stand so close to the penguin whilst holding that courgette in such a provocative manner. Now, far be it from me to ever call into question the perspicacity of your prose or even the epigrammatic accuracy of your verse, which, whilst strictly not free is reasonably cheap, especially for a reader on a budget.

However, for the reader on a budgie, it is another matter entirely and one over which we must draw a veil, if not paint a curtain. Now I am not one to call into question that validity or otherwise of your mandolin-accompanied observations, expect in wishing to point out that the lady in question was not using the salami in quite the way you allude to, at least not for the entirety of her visit to Ludlow. I have seen the till receipts from the newsagents in question and I think I can speak here from authority.

So, in which case, I can only formally request that you place the bagpipes back in the container provided and take a step back and prepare yourself for a full perusal by the invigilator. I believe I can’t say fairer than that, at least whilst wearing these particular underpants.

Monday, July 5, 2010

The Implications Of A Held-Aloft Saveloy

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The donkey has that look in her eye again. Have you been reading extracts from the A-Z of Droitwich aloud to her again? I told you about that and what it can do to the mind of a young and ambitious donkey, how the bright lights and decadence of Droitwich can turn a young donkey’s head.

I knew a badger once who ventured too close to Tewksbury; he was never the same again afterwards and could never snigger at the implications of a held-aloft saveloy ever again. A sad, sad loss to the then nascent badger accountancy industry, we shall never look upon its like again, at least not until next Thursday.

So, anyway, I see you have arrived here this morning fully-equipped with your potential full nudity in readiness for this afternoon’s hands-on perversion exercises. So if you just put what clothes you have on, over there on the pile next to the reindeer.

NO!

Not that pile, especially while it is still steaming. That pile over there.

Anyway, while you get yourself acclimatised to this… er… rather bracing hillside, and the ‘nature-watchers’ in the bushes over there get their cameras, binoculars and other devices re-focused, I will just warm my hands up over this gently smouldering social worker, and then we can begin.