Friday, 28 September 2018

Holiday Blog


This week I decided to take a break from my ongoing publicity drive. I needed to recharge the batteries and blow off the cobwebs. A vacation was in order.

Thus, on Monday morning, my companion and I climbed into the Smithmobile and drove the fifty miles to the ancient and mysterious island of Llanhorny, believed to be the rudest place in Wales. Leaving the mainland behind, we crossed the bridge on the stroke of noon, intent on losing ourselves in the strange landscape and culture of this alien world across the water.

It was only when the first cartographers set foot on Llanhorny and detailed the rugged coastline, that it was discovered the island was shaped like an enormous minge. Copies of maps were sold to navigators and masturbators alike, the saucy topography inspiring lust in lonely gentlemen of the age.

Weaving along tangled country lanes, we make for our first stop, the oldest working dirty dairy farm in the country, where the milk maids are said to wear no knickers and often bend over to attract the attention of passers-by. The place is a bugger to find, as, according to rumour, the island’s council took down all the road signs and sold off the scrap metal to buy drugs. Just as we are on the verge of giving up, we stumble across the farm, but alas, it is closed on Mondays.

A little disheartened, we continue our quest, turning left toward the coast where we hope to visit the National Museum of Tits. After driving straight through an unmarked junction and narrowly avoiding a car accident, we find a parking space and make the short journey on foot along the promenade to the museum gates, but alas, find it to be closed on Mondays.

After a mug of coffee from our flask we consult the guidebook and make for the Institute of Freelance Lesbianism, a cooperative set up by a couple of carpet munchers, back in the seventies, who fled prejudice in search of a simpler island life. We find the institute, and rubbing our hands in anticipation of seeing some hot, girl on girl action, attempt to gain entry via the front door. Unfortunately, according to a note taped above the letterbox, the place is closed on Mondays.

Our holiday is not going well. Frustrated and saddened, we give up on our rude pilgrimage and decide to go to the hotel and get drunk. After another hair-raising drive, we arrive at the quaint inn and carry our luggage inside. Here, at the bar, we find a dairy farmer, a museum curator and a couple of stout ladies in dungarees, drinking lager and arguing about the football results. The landlord scowls at us and barks in guttural language, that the hotel is closed on Mondays.

Wednesday, 12 September 2018

Pant Rant


Today, I am a worried man. Aside of the usual panics and quibbles that distress me, there is an extra load bearing down upon my shoulders. I am scared we may lose the greatest word in the English language. Pants.

The basis of this fear lies in the creeping Americanisation of our culture. Our traditions are changing. The Senior Prom and Trick or Treat have become an integral part of our youngsters’ development. People sit on couches rather than settees, and wear shades rather than sunglasses. A checkout girl at the supermarket even recently told me to “have a nice day”.

Well I’m sorry missy, but I’m British, and I have absolutely no intention of having a ‘nice’ day. I shall have a rank, fucking miserable day, as is my wont, and no amount of nauseating, sickly sweet rhetoric will change that.

Our overweight cousins from across the Atlantic are causing linguistic confusion by mixing up the meaning of the word pants. When they say pants, they mean trousers. When they say underpants, they mean actual pants. How long before the first British child adopts this misuse and spreads the foul affectation to the rest of our youth?

We must resist at all costs. We must cling on to our love of pants, the same way their sturdy elastic lovingly clings to our waists. Pants are funny. Pants are the heart and soul of our sense of Britishness. And most importantly of all, pants are not, and must never become, trousers.

It is for this exact reason I shall today be writing a stiff letter to the President of the America, insisting he and his nation of obese, gun-wielding lunatics desist from damaging our culture any further, or else run the risk of incurring our wrath. No longer shall we meekly bend over and allow the star-spangled hand of the United States to ram its precocious, fledgling language up our British bottoms.

For we here in these isles know the true meaning of pants. We were wearing pants when the Yankees were still in short trousers. Long before the declaration of independence had even been signed, we here in the old world were adjusting our delicate bits and examining our gussets for skidmarks.

That’s right, Mr Trump. It was we who invented this language which you pervert on a daily basis, and it is we who shall define its parameters. A pant is a pant. A trouser is a trouser, and that’s the way it shall stay.

And before you go off to eat your fourteen-pound steakburger, with your AK-47 and your banjo balanced across your knee, I suggest you take some time to think about how you could change your linguistic usage to best suit our needs.

I am suggesting you take immediate steps to insist all American trousers from now on be referred to as over-pants, thus negating the need to place the unnecessary word ‘under’ in front of the classically elegant word ‘pants’.

Take heed of my warning. Wars have been fought for less.

Yours, in pants,
SJ Smith

Thursday, 6 September 2018

More Publicity


With the release date of my fourth novel Return to the House of Fox drawing ever closer, I have been wracking my brain for ideas to raise my profile, in the hope of driving sales up toward double figures. After my attempt to break a world record ended in dismal failure, I have decided to stage a charity event, in the hope of gaining much needed publicity.

Next week I will be participating in a sponsored wank, with all proceeds going to the Gethin Jenkins Foundation for People with Huge Heads but Unusually Skinny Legs. This terrible affliction affects many across Wales, and the foundation does great work by helping suffers buy baggier trousers and grow distracting fringes. I am hoping to raise more than £4 to go towards their sterling efforts.

I will be wanking from Castell Spinbreath, in the heart of rural North Wales, to the Pen y Bryn public tavern, Llanrhos, also in the heart of rural North Wales, but a bit to the left. This epic journey of some seventeen miles will take six days to complete, and see me wanking through some of the most spectacular scenery in the country. I will be joined by local celebrities along the way, who will wank alongside me.

So please, show your support; dig deep in your pockets and send cash, in none sequential, used bills, to SJ Smith, Castell Spinbreath, Wales. And don’t forget to honk your horn and wave if you see me wanking in a street near you.

Tuesday, 4 September 2018

Publicity


With the launch date of my new novel Return to the House of Fox fast approaching, thoughts this week turned to publicity, and how best to pimp my magnum opus to the masses. I’m not allowed on TV after my infamous wardrobe malfunction on the Des O’Connor Show, and they’ve refused to have me back on the radio since I inadvertently used the C word during Children’s Hour.

How then, with the mainstream media shunning me, should I go about ensuring SJ Smith is the name on everyone’s lips?

The answer came to me during a heavy drinking session in a skip behind Tesco. I should make an  attempt to break a world record. What better way to draw attention and boost my reputation? I immediately got on with researching the subject, scouring the web for heroic feats to undertake. The world record for swimming the Channel? Too much like hard work. The world record for eating cheese? No thanks, might give me heartburn.

Then I found it, the perfect challenge for a bone idle fellow like me; the world record for running over old ladies, while driving a double decker bus dressed as Philip Schofield.

A few phone calls and several cans of lager, and I was soon ready for my attempt. A shining red double decker was dispatched from the depot, and my good friend Dodgy Dave managed to procure a dozen old dears from a local Alzheimer’s ward. I donned a grey wig and clutched a cute kitten, and passers-by swore I was a dead ringer for Schofield himself. With everything in place, I gunned the engine and lurched forward to make my mark on history.

But, is as often the case, the day was beset by difficulties. Either my wig would fall off or the kitten would escape, or else the old ladies would wander off to make racial slurs or play bingo. And then a tramp failed to notice the ‘Sorry, not in service’ sign on the front of the double decker, climbed aboard and shat himself on the back seat. The bus company insisted on recalling the vehicle for a hosing down, and I had to wait ages for a replacement.

Eventually, with the sun sinking in the west, I made one last ditch effort. Accelerating along the High Street, I swerved this way and that and mowed down the collective of pensioners. Zimmer frames, false teeth and fur lined boots flew in all directions, and as the screams finally quieted I lit a cigarette and waited for my attempt to be verified.

Norris McSquirter, a wrinkly old bastard in an ill-fitting suit, wandered up and down, hands behind his back, counting the corpses. The current record stood at ten. Had I done enough?

Alas, no. McSquirter conducted an autopsy on one of the old biddies and found she had died not from wounds inflicted by my aggressive driving, but rather from an attack of mange. He ruled the attempt a failure, and sped off chuckling in his Aston Martin.

So, no world record for me, and with only two and a half months to go until the release of Return to the House of Fox, I must come up with a different way to spam the public.

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.