Thursday, 31 May 2018

The Sensual and Seductive Dance of the Willy

Malcolm Muggles was a sad and lonely fellow, approaching middle age and yet to know the touch of a woman. He’d never even kissed a girl, let alone had a go on her naughty bits. As his forty-fifth birthday came and went without so much as a sniff of action, he resolved to have one last try at ending the losing streak, or else give up on the idea of hanky-panky forever.

He searched the internet for the ways and means to score with a female, and made several awkward attempts to seduce Miranda Bumgardner, a shy but pretty girl he'd seen around the dole office. He wandered past, drenched with a pheromone spray which had cost him an entire week’s giro, but Miranda only turned up her nose. He tried to break the ice with a slightly risqué joke, but fucked up the punchline and ended up on the sex offender’s register. For all his efforts, Miranda didn’t even seem to know he existed. Crestfallen, he realised his only option was to gracefully accept that he would die alone.

But one day, on his way home from an appointment with his probation officer, Malcolm stopped dead in his tracks as he spotted a book in a charity shop window. ‘Dance Your Way into a Woman’s Knickers’, was the title, emblazoned across the cover above a photograph of a scantily clad maiden. Hairs standing up on the back of his penis, Malcolm dashed inside and handed over the princely sum of one pound fifty to an elderly lady in a brown cardigan, who almost broke her neck trying to retrieve the book from the window display.

Back in the safety of his bedroom, Malcolm examined his purchase with trembling hands. According to the blurb on the back of the dust jacket, the book was a comprehensive guide to mastering the sultry and seductive Dance of the Willy, an ancient traditional folk dance performed throughout the ages by men who literally had to beat them away with a shitty stick. The author personally claimed to be a practitioner of the fabled art, which had led to him bedding more than eight women and answering to the title of the greatest lover in the West Midlands Metropolitan area.

Malcolm turned to page one and began his studies.

A fortnight later, Malcolm spotted Miranda down at the dole office and put his plan into action. He ran to the toilets and changed into his dance outfit; white socks and open toed sandals, and nothing else. One last check in the mirror for reassurance, and he went prowling out to conquer the feisty vixen.

When he emerged from the toilets, bollock-naked, Miranda’s mouth fell open and she reached for the telephone. But before she had time to call the police, Malcolm commenced the ancient dance. One foot up on the coffee table, he wiggled his hips, setting his willy jiving and jumping. Miranda’s eyes grew wide with desire as she fell under the hypnotic spell of the rhythmic exhibition.

She went home with him that evening, cooked lasagne and chips and did an underpant wash. After tea she performed upon his person a series of sexual acts so lurid and foul they would be considered illegal in most civilised countries.

“Would you like another can of Special Brew?” she beamed, cheeks aglow.

“Cheers, love.” Malcolm grinned and turned on Match of the Day.

Wednesday, 23 May 2018

GDPR Statement

I have no idea what the fuck a GDPR is, but as everyone else is doing them I figured I’d jump on the bandwagon and issue a statement.

Giant Dildo Punishes Rapist?

I think it’s something to do with online security. So, I’ll assure each and every one of the six people reading this nonsense that I do not collect any personal information about you. I mean, I would if I could, as I’m a nosy bastard, but I’m not clever enough.

Gay Dave Pumps Roger?

I do like to look at the statistics and see how many people are viewing my site (six), but that’s as far as it goes. As far as I’m concerned, cookies are something you eat.

Girl’s Dandruff Problem Remedied?

Does this bring me in line with the new European whatchamacallit? What happened to Brexit? I didn’t think we had to do what those damned Frenchies told us anymore. I shall be writing a stiff letter to Nigel Farage and calling him a cunt.

Greta’s Dyed Pubes Revealed?

That’s about it. If you have any questions then don’t hesitate to get in touch, but don’t be expecting a reply as I can’t be arsed.

Monday, 7 May 2018

Cocky the Cocky Cock

Never, in the history of the farmyard, had there been such an arrogant rooster as Cocky. A hefty Rhode Island Red, he ran the coop as his own personal harem, foisting his rampant prowess upon the long-suffering lady chickens as if it were his God given right.

One sunny morning, Cocky preened his glossy feathers and shook out his magnificent comb so it stood proud and erect. “A lot of people ask if I’m a leg man or a breast man,” he said into the mirror, pretending he was being interviewed by Michael Parkinson. “But face facts; when a motherfucker looks this good, he ain’t got to choose. He going to get the whole portion served up on a plate, every damn time.”

He went strutting out across his territory, casting his beady eyes about for a likely filly to bestow upon his fifty shades of gravy. Down by the corn trough he came across a gathering of girlies and puffed himself up to his full size. He whipped out his enormous dong, so huge and bulbous his wingtips could barely contain it. “Say, which one of you birds wants a good stuffing?”

The timid hens shrank back from his appendage, huddling in the corner, refusing to even look at him.

“Hey, don’t go all frigid on me. Come on, show us your giblets.”

“Actually,” one of the females took a deep breath and faced up to the hulking bantam. “We’ve had our fill of your foul behaviour. We’ve all decided to become lesbi-hens.”

“Bullshit,” Cocky stepped forward, trying to intimidate. “You’re just playing hard to get.”

“It’s true.” She defiantly held her ground. “From now on we’ll only be giving the beak. You’ll have to pleasure your own drumstick.”

Cocky shook his head, incredulous. “Bitch, I’m going to give you five seconds to quit sassing me.”

“Oh, cluck off Cocky. We’re not scared of you.”

Forming a mob, the chickens rushed him. Cocky tried to fight them off, but quickly found himself overpowered by their winged fury. They bore down on him, pecking and scratching with viscous intent. “Please, stop,” he begged, but his pathetic pleas went unheard.

Later that day, the farmer happened by the coop, and was filled with great sadness as he saw the dishevelled figure of Cocky, plucked practically bald and cowering in terror. “Deary me,” he muttered. “Looks like the lead’s gone out your pencil, old son. And you know what that means.” He quickly wrung Cocky’s neck, and that evening the family had him for tea, with some nice roast potatoes and a side helping of pickled red cabbage.

Friday, 4 May 2018

The Tragic Tale of Alfie Ballcock

Life should have been a bowl of cherries for Alfie Ballcock, but alas, fate had other ideas in store. Alfie wasn’t the brightest, indeed he was generally considered to be entirely without talent or ability, until the day he dived head first into the chlorine blue of his local municipal swimming pool.

With a natural grace he glided shark-like through the water, amazing all who had the good fortune to witness. Finally, Alfie had found his calling. Word quickly spread of the incredible fellow who could complete an entire length without taking a breath, in less time than it took to start the stopwatch. Alfie soon came to the attention of a prominent swimming coach, who earmarked him as a future Olympic star in the making.

A time trial was organised and, as expected, he aced the minimum requirements for entry to the British team. But while the coach and his family cheered and exchanged high fives, no one reminded poor Alfie to get out of the pool, and too tired to tread water any longer, he sank like a stone.

Eventually, someone noticed the forlorn figure lying on the bottom. An ambulance was summoned, and they dragged Alfie out and performed mouth to mouth in the hopes of keeping him alive. When he coughed up a lungful of water they thought perhaps there was a chance he may live. Rushed to hospital, he was placed in an intensive care ward.

The nurse on duty that fateful day decided to give Alfie a bath, as he smelled overpoweringly of chlorine. But while she got distracted, chatting on Facebook to a fellow who’d sent photos of his cock, Alfie slid beneath the surface for the second time that day.

By the time she pulled him unconscious from the tub, exposure to so much warm water had caused Alfie to shrink, and he was now roughly the same size as a Star Wars figure. This made things easier for the hospital, as instead of taking up a whole bed, Alfie was so small his comatose body could be laid out on a slice of thick, white bread on the nurse’s desk.

But one last tragedy lay in wait. A consultant gynaecologist, in a rush to look at a woman’s minge, mistook Alfie for a sausage sandwich, and after dowsing him with ketchup, ate poor Alfie whole.

Thus ended yet another story of what might have been, if only people weren’t such fucking idiots.

On hearing of Alfie’s misfortune, God saw that a chance to unleash a shining star of joy upon a miserable, grey world had been missed, and he decided to set things straight. He dispatched his heavenly entourage to visit Alfie’s brother Stan, to bestow upon him the great gifts so sadly wasted on his sibling.

“Do you want to become a world champion swimmer?” The Archangel Gabriel asked Stan.

“No,” Stan replied. “Do I fuck.”

Wednesday, 25 April 2018

April Gardening Notes

The old oak tree at the bottom of the South facing hill had come under attack from an invasion of crawling ivy, which was strangling the life out of the poor thing, so I made it my mission to grab my secateurs and head down there to see if I could rectify the situation. As I chopped and hacked my way through the scrambling stems, I discovered a thin, red, electrical cable, hidden in the foliage, disappearing upward toward the higher branches. Mystified, I took hold of the cable and gave it a damn good yank.

Much to my horror, as I looked up I realised an instant too late that the cable had been installed running straight through the centre of a squirrel’s nest, or a ‘drey’ as I have since found out they are called. The effect of my yanking was a like a whip crack, and as the cable straightened taut, the drey exploded into tiny pieces. Rudely disturbed from slumber, the mother squirrel was strong enough to keep her grip, but alas her brood of six youngsters were catapulted straight over the wall onto the adjoining railway line.

I ran over to see what I could do, but I regret to announce that the ten forty-seven to Crewe came blasting down the tracks at that very moment. The baby squirrels, or kittens, never stood a chance.

Now I don’t speak squirrel language, but I can’t imagine the chattering and squeaking being levelled at me by Mama squirrel was entirely complimentary. I apologised profusely and swore an oath I would find the identity of the miscreant who put that damned cable there and caused this unfortunate infanticide.

With Mama squirrel hot on my heels, I followed the cable down through the dell, where it lay hidden in a shallow gully, and up and over the fence onto the neighbouring estate. From there it wound its way around several sharp corners, in the direction of the main house. When I realised its ultimate destination, my mouth fell open in shock. The cable ran up a steel post to a video camera, aimed straight through the back window of the lady next door.

It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. On one side, my land is bordered by that of Marvin Scrote, a somewhat nefarious character, who earns his fortune from internet pornography. On the other lives Lady Mugrunch, a highly esteemed champion of gay rights, and host to the International Naked Lesbian of the Year show.

Goddamnit. That son of a bitch Scrote was surreptitiously videoing the unsuspecting nudists for his website, using a hidden wire tap running straight across my garden. I wasn’t about to stand for this sort of nonsense.

Mama squirrel and I went and banged furiously on Scrote’s door. A small man with slicked back hair and a pencil moustache, he answered and regarded me with cold, reptilian eyes. “What do you want, Smith?”

“I found your cable and video camera,” I snarled. “You should be bloody ashamed of yourself. This poor squirrel’s entire family is dead because of you.”

“Oh yes? And what are you going to do about it?” He flicked ash from a menthol cigarette straight into my face.

“You cunt.” I rolled up my sleeves and went for him. After that, it’s all a bit of a blur.

I was able to piece the story together later from the police report. Apparently, Scrote’s bodyguard, an eight-foot tall gorilla, grabbed me by the neck and administered something of a pasting. But then, as Scrote stood laughing, Mama squirrel leapt up and bit his nuts clean off. She carried them away and buried them somewhere in the garden. They still haven’t been found to this day.

That’s it for my April gardening advice. Check back in May when I’ll be explaining how to prune your evergreens and stumble into a Russian blackmail plot.

Monday, 23 April 2018

Doctor SJ and Mr Smith

Doctor SJ is a quiet and somewhat reclusive fellow. Shunning society, he lives in his castle on the hill, and spends his days writing ridiculous, smutty novels, which no one buys.

But as darkness falls each night, Doctor SJ grows lonely and bored, and stares out of the window at a world from which he is dislocated. This is when he succumbs to temptation and quaffs the magic potion which will transform him.

The potion, known colloquially as ‘Seven pints of lager’, changes the shy Doctor SJ into the overtly gregarious loudmouth, Mr Smith. He immediately takes to the internet, writing complete shite on various social media platforms, making unwanted sexual advances to females, and generally acting like an arse.

By the time morning comes around, the potion's effects have worn off, and upon waking, the fearful Doctor SJ checks his phone to see what havoc his alter ego has unleashed during the night. “Oh no,” he whispers, as he sees the half dozen photographs of his genitals he has emailed to that nice lady who works in Tescos. He has unwittingly given his bank details to a Nigerian general, in the mistaken belief he was talking to a lonely glamour model, and gotten himself banned from a rugby forum by calling the head moderator a cunt.

Sheepishly, the introverted Doctor begins his day afresh, guilt and remorse hammering his befuddled brain, all the time knowing that come sunset, the whole sorry cycle will be put into motion once again.

Tuesday, 6 March 2018

Proud to be a Snowflake

The world is pretty fucked up at the best of times, but right now things seem to be becoming unhinged at an increasing rate. A quick skim through social media and it becomes apparent America is busy tearing itself in half; those still blinded by patriotism are furiously clinging on to the notion that Trump is a competent leader, while everyone else screams he should be in prison. In Britain, the entirely unnecessary Brexit referendum has given a voice to those we’d hoped had gone the way of the dinosaurs and proved that stupidity is still the dominant factor.

I think it’s fair to say the right wing has had a grip over the western world for at least the past forty years. Ever since Thatcher and Reagan cuddled up and introduced a new extreme brand of conservatism, there has been little trickling down to the masses as the top one percent insist on keeping it all. The working class, as a political entity, has been smashed, stripped of unions and rights, and doesn’t really exist anymore. In it’s place lies a breed of consumers, who live their lives drip fed by advertisements and encouraged throughout their education and beyond toward apathy.

But in 2018 there has been something of an awakening. A group of schoolchildren, survivors of the latest American mass murder, have had the audacity to open their mouths and challenge the status quo. And you’d better believe, the status quo don’t like it one little bit.

It’s easy to tell the right wing are rattled, because the propaganda has gone into overdrive. The usual drool has progressed to outright lies as they desperately try to pull back the tiny slippage of complete domination they have suffered. Some of the crap coming out right now would be hilarious, if it weren’t for the fact there are plenty of people willing to believe it.

For instance, did you know that if only the NRA had been around in nineteen thirties Germany, the Jews could have armed themselves and fought off the Nazis? Or that in the sixties, the NRA armed black folk to help them battle the KKK, a ‘Democrat sponsored terrorist organisation’? I don’t know about you, but when I think of the Third Reich and the Ku Klux Klan, I tend to associate them with being on the right. But apparently not; the GOP and its fanatics are rewriting history to suit their own particular brand of bullshit.

So, from hence forth, a democrat is the same thing as a liberal, which is the same thing as a socialist, which is the same thing as a communist. You hate America and you want to steal freedom. Go back to Russia. Yes, Russia; the same country that Trump is alleged to be in the pocket of, but don’t let the facts get in the way of your stupidity.

And if you think people deserve healthcare, or if you think we shouldn’t destroy the planet we live on, then you’re a ‘Snowflake’. I have no idea where this word suddenly came from, but it’s apparently a generic insult to be thrown at anyone who disagrees with Hitler.

I think we should take the word back. Come on, my snowflakes, let’s stand up and be counted. Let’s stop swallowing the bullshit of brain dead, redneck, Nazi warmongers everywhere, who insist on blindly doing the work of the handful of aging, white billionaires who actually cause all the damage. Jesus was a socialist. If it was good enough for him, it’s good enough for me.