Saturday, 10 July 2010

"Would sir care for an after dinner cigar?......."

Well, what a fiasco eh? A week ago, Raoul Moat, a violent man, was due to be released from prison. He told the warders, parole board and anyone else who would listen, that he had the intention of hurting his ex-girlfriend upon his release. The police (in all their wisdom) decided to bury their heads in the sand and do nothing, after all, they had their hands full trying to catch those dastardly bastards who will insist on eating Kit Kats whilst driving.

So sure as eggs is eggs, out he comes, stomps round the ex-girlfriends gaf, and blows her new boyfriend away, and does a pretty good job on her too. Then he wanders off and shoots a copper in a car at point blank range. Apparently, he had got it in his head, that the ex’s new fella was a copper. Apparently he wasn’t, but hey, he wasn’t going to let the facts hinder his judgement.
The tragic part of this story had just occurred, now we moved onto phase two, the farce. Raoul Moat now took off, and settled in the small Northumbrian town of Rothbury. He didn’t bother paying a visit to the local estate agents, no, he felt he wanted to live alfresco.

So off he meandered into the woods, and managed to give eleven, yes count ‘em ELEVEN police forces the slip for seven days. These are the ELEVEN police forces that have all the latest equipment, helicopters enabled with heat seeking devices etc etc and even the assistance of the SAS. Along the “Journey” the police came into the possession of various letters blaming everybody else for the predicament that Moat now found himself in. This bit stumped me a little. Now obviously I don’t know all the facts, but how did they receive this correspondence? If it was via the Royal Mail, I am surprised they received it at all, or did one of the handful of crims that were undoubtedly assisting Moat in his nocturnal meanderings deliver it to the police station by hand? If this was the case, wouldn’t it have been a good idea to apprehend the messenger, and maybe just ask him where Moat was?…….just a thought.

Well he trundled around taking in the morning air and the July sunshine for seven days, until he was finally corned on a river bank at about six thirty pm. We now enter the part that actually inspired me, nay, incensed me to write this.

Picture the scene if you will. A no doubt dishevelled, dehydrated, disoriented and slightly psychotic Moat is laying on the grass of the river bank with a gun pointed at his own head. He was apparently completely surrounded by police officers, armed to the teeth with all the latest assault rifles and sub machine guns. Some of the officers were only twenty feet away. Now in the good old days, the days where Gene Hunt and the like were on the beat. The days when coppers were proper coppers, you know the one’s that actually wanted to apprehend scum, and took pleasure in doing it, not just float through a career in the police thinking up poncy initiatives and all the rest of it, they would no doubt have shouted something at Moat like “Put the fucking gun down fuckface, or we will shoot your fucking arse off.” At which point Moat realising that the police were proper police, and weren’t going to fuck around, would have given himself up. Either that, or he would have entered such a state of psychosis that he would have pointed the gun at someone, and then been duly shot.

Fast forward to 2010 where human rights and health and safety are far more important than arresting scumbags, and the scenario is oh so very different. Now I am no expert on apprehending armed villains, but they were twenty bloody feet away from him for Christ’s sake. Apparently a tazar might have made a muscle spasm and ended up with him unintentionally pulling the trigger, and blowing his own head off (Like that wasn’t go to be the absolute inevitable end result anyway) so that was out of the question.

For years special forces around the world have had things called stun grenades, or ’Flashbangs’ They do what it says on the tin. They make a deafening bang and create a blinding flash, thus disorientating the miscreant for a fraction of a second, which is just enough time to give the assaulters the tactical advantage. So why not chuck half a dozen of those at him (Remember, they are only twenty feet away) and while his ears are still ringing, and he can’t see, rush at him (Remember, they are only twenty feet away!) whack him on the back of the head with a truncheon, and say “Your fucking nicked my son.”

Sigh, this is 2010, so they entered into six hours of debate with him! I could understand the softly softly approach if he was holding a gun to the head of a hostage, but he was holding a gun at his own head! So he had effectively taken himself hostage, and the police were trying to persuade him to let himself go! You could not make it up. “Trained negotiators” were speaking to him. Just how much training does one need to ask someone “If they want tea or coffee” Yes I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, reports were coming in that they were giving him food and drink!!!

Miss Marple and myself were watching all of this unfold on sky news (There was nothing else on, on the nine-hundred channels available!) The inevitable Psychologists were rolled out in front of the camera. Is it just me, or is psychology really just stating the bleedin’ obvious? There they are spouting forth with “Moat is a man that likes to be in control” - really! “He is blaming everyone else for this situation” - really! Well thanks for that insight. Where would we be without you?
So, back to the hotel, sorry siege. Yes he was being offered sustenance. I had visions of a little butler shuffling forward with a pad and pencil taking his order.

“What can I get you sir?”
“Have ye got any lobster?”
“Oh I am sorry sir, the lobster is off. We have some rather nice veal.”
“Yeah all right, I’ll have it medium with some French fries and lightly sautéed wild mushrooms.”
“And to drink sir?”
“Chateaux nerf du pape, ‘85.……obviously.”
“A very good choice sir, perhaps sir would like to listen to our string quartet while he waits for his food?”
“Yeah, that would be reet grand kidda, oh, and have you got a pillow for me heed, this grass is getting damp.”
“Of course sir…….A pillow for Mr Moat, and bring on the string quartet. Perhaps sir would enjoy a massage, I am sure he must be feeling a little tense.”
For fucks sake!!! What is going on in the world???

Apparently drinkers from the local pub had started putting out deck chairs so that they could take in the unfolding drama with a pint! That was until a party pooping health and safety obsessed policeman told them to go back inside.

Just when you thought things could not get any more weird, ridiculous, pathetic or down right silly, a pissed up Paul Gascoigne Arrived!!! He was claiming to be a good buddy of Mr Moat, and was offering to help “Talk him down.”
LOL, every bloody thing today is just Hollywood isn’t it? In the good old days, you didn’t get celebrities turning up at an armed siege. I suppose it is a shame he shot himself really. If only he had given himself up, he would have undoubtedly only got a couple of weeks detention for killing someone, and maiming to others, and he would have been out in time to be the star attraction in “I’m a celebrity, get me out of here”! Jordan would have unquestionably dumped the cage fighter and shacked up with “Moaty” ITV2 would have been hot on their heals for a reality show, and the autobiography would have been in W H Smiths for Christmas.
Stop the world, it’s gone way past my stop!

Sunday, 21 February 2010

Bless you Mr Wallace.......

“They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom” Very noble words there from Mr William Wallace, very noble indeed, load of old idealistic bollocks obviously, but never the less, very noble.
Many an armchair ranter, or a bar stool commentator has said that “The bloody Germans might has well have won the bloody war, for all the freedom we enjoy now.” Truer words could not be spoken could they, for today we enjoy no more freedom, than if fritz had been goose stepping up and down the high street for the last sixty-five years.

Ok ok, our lack of freedom today may be a surreptitious one, rather than an in your face “You vil be shot” kinda one, but in some ways I think that is worse. Churchill and other pontificators gave us lots of speeches about how we must fight the oppressors, and not give in to tyranny, but what bloody good did it do us eh? Because it’s still there, and always will be.

It’s just that today it takes different forms, instead of having an MP40 shoved in your face, and being told in no uncertain terms to comply, today we are dictated to by little clipboard Nazi’s.
Trust me when I tell you, that you are in no way free. Try walking out into the countryside (the very countryside that my grandfathers fought to keep free) and pitching a tent for the night. I can guarantee that some little man will emerge from the bushes, clipboard in hand and issue you with some kind of fixed penalty notice, for “Unauthorised pitching of a temporary abode.” Ask the lady who stood on a street corner in London, holding up a list of names of the soldiers that have been killed in the Iraq/Afghanistan war, if she felt free when she was bundled into the back of a police van.

I suppose what prompted me to write this, was my own gradual realisation that my “Freedom” was not all that it seemed. Just little things, but those little things add up, and one comes to the sorry realisation that we are all just prisoners really. Prisoners of the growing controlling, paranoid, state that we used to believe was the land of the free.

I remember when I was a wee lad, me and my little mates used to go and play in a place that we used to call “The woods.” What happened to them eh? We don’t have “The woods” anymore do we, no, we have ‘Nature reserves’. You know those places that used to be the woods, where anyone could go, and do whatever they pleased. Nothing ever really bad happened there back then, kids would pretend to be soldiers, courting couples would enjoy a moment of innocent bliss. Deer would run free and frolic in the autumn mist, and just occasionally someone would leave a porn mag laying there!
Never did really understand why that would be, especially as they had probably gone to great lengths to acquire it in the first place. You know, hanging around in the news agents until the shop was empty, lurking around until the male assistant was available, all of this to then just go and leave it in the woods? Anyway, I digress. So, the woods were just the woods, nobody really knew who owned them, nobody really cared. Did it matter? No, not one little bit. But somewhere along the line, the woods were taken over by some kind of foliage fascists! And now we have ‘Nature reserves’. sigh.

You know the kind of thing, lots of trees, but even more signs. “DON’T WALK HERE” - DON’T STEP THERE” - “KEEP YOUR DOG ON A LEAD IN THIS AREA” - “DON’T LOOK AT THESE PLANTS” - and my absolute favourite “THIS AREA HAS BEEN CORDENED OFF, TO PROTECT THE TREES FROM DEER MOLESTATION” !!!!!!! What the fuck is going on? This gave me visions of gangs of terrorist deer, all going along, and when nobody was looking, trampling on some bushes, giggling and then running away. Or maybe two deer in the dark of the night, maliciously hacking down trees just out of spite. The poor deer must have wondered what the bloody hell was going on, when the nature Nazi’s turned up and started fencing off great swathes of the forest. I would imagine that deer’s being well, absolute deer’s! Probably tried to reason with them. Told them that they had been living in the woods for centuries, and despite man’s interference, they and the trees had managed to co exist quite nicely thank you. I then imagine them being told by some green fleece wearing little Hitler to “Fuck off.”

I took a trip out to one of our local “Nature reserves” the other day with Ronnie and Reggie. I got all the way there, only to be greeted by hoards of green fleece wearers. All the entrances had “Police keep out” tape wrapped around them, and there was a sign saying “KEEP OUT - DO NOT ENTER. THESE WOODS ARE CLOSED DUE TO DEER MAINTANENCE. DO NOT ENTER.” What in the name of Christ is deer maintenance? I imagine the deer are asking the very same question. Perhaps it’s more sinister than I imagine. Are there lines of deer, all trudging slowly towards a gas chamber, while green fleece wearers spit at them. Male and female deer being separated, the males being driven away never to be seen again, while the young one’s sob uncontrollably. I have a message for the green fleece wearers…….”FUCK RIGHT OFF AND LEAVE THEM AND US A FUCKING LONE.”

Some bastard tried to recruit me once you know. Miss Marple and I were in ‘Pets at home’ and some green fleece wearer sidled up to us, and basically tried to persuade us to join her cause. She had a little stand and everything. Full of leaflets and brochures, explaining all of the “Good work” they did. She was very persuasive, I was starting to be sucked in, she started filling my head with all sorts of “Anti deer propaganda” explaining how they were “Running riot” in the reserves, and how they had to be stopped, thankfully the sun glinted off of her swastika necklace, and I came to my senses…….phew!

Just one more example before I go ( I am on a roll). About three or so years ago, after many what can only be described as pathetic attempts to stop smoking, I finally did it. I don’t know how really, but by some miracle, I did. I contacted our life insurance company to tell them that I was now a good boy, and ask them if that would mean that my monthly premiums would be reduced. The person on the end off the phone sounded very disappointed, and told me that I would have to be a very good boy for a year, not smoke at all, and at the end of that year a Nazi would come to my house and do all sorts of ghastly tests on me, to see if I was telling the truth.

I didn’t smoke for a year, and a Nazi did indeed come to my house. She made me do a wee into a bottle, tested this, tested that, blindfolded me, held a dagger to my throat, and made me swear on the bible that I would never ever smoke again as long as I shall live. After she failed to “Break me” she informed the insurance company that I was now a good boy, and the insurers begrudgingly reduced my premium from £4000 pounds a month to £3999. Thanks.

Now, my point is this. Let’s say for example that in seven years time, on Christmas day, by some miracle I am enjoying myself. There I am, swigging away, laughing, joking (I know it’s far fetched, but work with me will ya) and generally having a jolly good time. Somebody say’s ”Do you fancy a fag?” and I, caught up in the moment, agree. I smoke the fag, and then the next day I kick the bucket. Now we all know that that one fag didn’t kill me, anyone with an ounce of common sense knows that one fag in ten years won’t kill you. but what do you think Mr Insurance Nazi is going to say when the tests show that I had smoked. That’s right, insurance policy null and void, big smiles all round at Nazi insurance headquarters, and no dosh for poor old Miss Marple.
Again, where is my freedom? I am being dictated to by a fucking insurance company. I can’t even have one fag in ten years, because some little clipboard wielding, pedantic Nazi say’s I cant.
Mr Wallace, I think you need to revise your little speech somewhat, how about this…….”They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom…….oh they have, sorry.”

Friday, 12 February 2010

It's all arse really.......

My general existence seems to become more and more bizarre day by day. Take this morning for example. Miss Marple had gone to work, and Ronnie Reggie, and myself had just returned from trudging around in the dark and the mud for an hour.......Joy! There i am standing in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a sweaty t-shirt, and yesterdays boxers. I don't always have breakfast, but felt a little peckish this morning, so decided to treat myself to one of last nights sausages, and a spoonful of beans. So, i am standing bare foot at the kitchen worktop, munching away (Classy!) while at the same time getting irritated with GMTV. Gradually i became aware that my bare feet were starting to become wet. I looked down, and there forming around my feet was a puddle.

I couldn't work out quite what was happening, but it did cross my mind that the unthinkable had finally happened. I had started to wet myself without knowing it! I gingerly patted around the crotch area, but to my great relief, all was dry. So i decided to investigate. If anyone had seen me at that moment, i would surely have been whisked away without any argument what so ever in an unmarked van, never to be seen again. Picture the scene. A 40 something, overweight, balding, bleary eyed man, wearing only a t-shirt, and a pair of "Used" boxers hanging off his arse, on his hands and knees on the kitchen floor, with a fork still in his hand, with half a sausage on the end, dripping baked bean juice, sniffing a puddle on the floor!

I am pretty sure nobody could see me, unless of course my whole life is the subject of a reality tv show, and has been since the day i was born, and everybody in my life are nothing but actors, and the whole of my existence so far has been watched by millions upon millions of voyeurs around the globe, all while i am blissfully unaware. You know, watching 'The Truman show' was one of the worst things i ever did!

Anyway, i still haven't got to the bottom of the mysterious puddle, investigations continue. Moving on, what has been occurring on this rock of ours while i have been sniffing floors? I suppose the "Big" news of last week, was that of John Terry knobbing around. I really fail to see why this is news on two fronts. Firstly, is it a surprise to hear that an overpaid, arrogant, spoilt, uneducated oaf of a footballer has been dipping it where he shouldn't? and secondly, just why the hell is it news anyway? Bloody hell the media couldn't get enough of it could they? It was in danger of reaching the dizzy heights of 'Tiger gate' but seems to have stalled at the last minute.

Do you know, i didn't even know that he was the captain of our national side. Should he have lost that captaincy, for things that occurred in his private life? A very small part of me says no, not really. But the overwhelming part of me can't help but be elated, when any kind of misfortune occurs to any obscenely overpaid, ignorant, arrogant, swaggering, loud mouthed, cock of a footballer! ....... Hurrah!

On a similar vein, was there anybody else on the planet, who couldn't fight off a small but satisfying little grin, when it was revealed that four trillion, or whatever it was, Toyota's have had to be recalled? For one thing, they are probably the most tedious car manufacturer there has ever been. Boring, average, mediocre, tin boxes. Passionless, gutless, and artless on the whole.
Oh how we have all been bored at one time or another, by some smug fucking eco warrior cockhead, rattling on about how he is single handedly saving the planet from all of us planet rapers, because he drives a Prius. Well, my clapped out old Daganum dustbin manages to accelerate and brake when i require it to thanks, so stick that in your herbal tea.

I heard yesterday that Alexander McQueen had died. I had never heard of him. But the usual thing happened. When anyone in the limelight dies, words like "Talented" and "Genius" are banded about willy nilly. I understand he was something big in the fashion world, well can the word genius really be applied to somebody who makes frocks? Now don't get me wrong, there is as much skill involved in tailoring as there is in brick laying and carpentry, but it's just a job really isn't it?
I understand that apart from making clothes that people might actually wear, he also "designed" clothes for cat walk shows. I genuinely fail to see where the talent is, in getting some six stone, Malboro light chain smoking, anorexic model, and making her parade up and down in a pair of hot pants made from tin foil and a string vest, whilst balancing the front offside coil spring from a 1982 Ford Fiesta on her head! BY calling him a genius, they are lumping him in the same club as Einstein, Brunel, and daVinci.......Oh Purleeeeeeeeese!

I have mentioned before about my reluctance to partake in public urination. Well the other is without doubt much much worse. I will go to great lengths to avoid any form of having to defecate anywhere that is not my own toilet! I think it could be said, that i am very wary of any kind of public waste disposal, i even wait till it's dark to put the bins out! Now, by now regular readers must have come to the conclusion that i am not backwards in coming forwards when it comes to discussing anything which may be perceived as being embarrassing subject matters. Sex, urination, masturbation, making an arse of myself in public etc, i have not shy ed away from any of them, but even I feel that a certain amount of decorum is required when discussing back door evacuations, so bearing that in mind, i will honestly try my hardest to avoid being too scatological. Here we go.......

As i have already mentioned, if at all possible, i will avoid using any form of public lavatory to do my number two's. "I'll wait" i think to myself, wait till i get home, but sometimes that just isn't possible is it? I have put it off on occasion, until i have started to experience pain, and broken out into a sweat etc, but there are times when one simply just has to go. One such occurrence happened whilst at work the other day. This is not my usual place of work i hasten to add, this is while i was "Behind enemy lines" so to speak.

The toilet in question has only two cubicles, i did the usual necessary recce before actually committing to the mission. You know what i mean, making various cloak and dagger visits to the toilets to see if the coast is clear, but on several occasions one of the" traps" was occupied, or there would be a bloke standing at the urinal. It must have looked odd, me making several trips to the toilet, only to see me dash out again within seconds. It's even worse when you go to have a look and one bloke is washing his hands, and another is standing at the urinal. The one washing his hands will undoubtedly see you, so you can't make a sharp exit. What are the options? Well, i could go and stand at the urinal and not be able to go because there is a bloke standing next to me, or i could plump for option two. That is to enter the vacant cubicle, and just stand there like a lemon, until the coast is clear! Who would have thought someone could turn defecating into such an absurdly complicated process! Option two it was then!

This fiasco went on for sometime, but eventually i hit the sweet spot, and discovered a completely vacant toilet facility. Eureka i thought. Quite frankly, it was a bloody good job it was vacant, because by now i was dripping with sweat, and i was pretty certain i was "Touching cloth".......Oh bugger, you see, i was trying my hardest, honestly i was, i was doing pretty well, then an "Ugly" popped out.......sorry, lets carry on.

So, I get myself into position, so to speak, and proceed with the mission. Then it happened. Foot steps, and the creaking of a door, some bastard had entered the toilets, oh no, where was he going to go, urinal, or trap two, footsteps, oh Christ it's trap two, all of my nightmares had come to life. It was no good, i was committed, there was no abandoning the mission now, i didn't have the comfort of a "Mission controller" saying "abort abort abort" in my special forces earpiece, i was here, and i was in for the long haul.

I will never cease to be amazed at how brazen some men can be, when it comes to their back door business. I go to extreme lengths to avoid any form of embarrassment, this could involve laying a protective layer of toilet paper in the bowl to avoid anyone hear me "Land!" and generally trying to remain as quiet and dignified as possible. Well the bloke next to me had obviously not been to the same finishing school as me. Christ, grunting, sighing, moaning, various unspeakable noises, what the hell was he doing in there? He even answered his bloody phone at one stage! I had to sit there and endure him having a conversation with his wife or whoever about shopping!

Why can't we have a bit of privacy when in a public toilet? why can't they make toilets with proper floor to ceiling walls, sound proofed etc, no, we have to sit there with just a bit of MDF between us. Or alternatively, why can't the scientific community come up with some kind of muffling device, to combat unwanted bottom sounds. Sort of like a silencer on a gun. Think i might have a go myself, perhaps even take it on 'Dragon's den'. Anyway, loads of blokes started entering and exiting the toilets, and in all the commotion and noise, i lost track of who was in and who was not, including matey boy next door. I hadn't heard the toilet flush, but some disgusting blokes don't.
There was definitely nobody at the urinals, or washing their hands, but what about next door. I listened intently for any sign that might give away the enemies position, nothing. But i couldn't be sure, there was nothing else for it, i was going to have to try and surreptitiously take a sneaky peek under the MDF. Sometimes you will be lucky, and get one of those guys that likes the "wide stance" so it's easy to ascertain the occupancy of the cubicle next door, but this guy was either not there at all, or he was a fan of the narrower feet position. I was going to have to lean further forward. No still nothing, bit more, bit more, starting to black out now, bit more. Now, i normally without fail, keep all of my loose change in my trouser pockets, but i had just been to the shop, and i had dumped it in my top pocket. You are ahead of me aren't you?.......Like a cascading silver and bronze waterfall, out it poured all over the floor, chink chink, tinkle tinkle, a cacophony of sound, and on top of that, i nearly headbutted the floor, due to almost blacking out from my now near totally upended position.

I hurriedly finished up the best i could, and exited the cubicle. Needless to say next door was vacant, and probably had been for some time. No doubt all of my efforts to check the occupancy of next door had been sadly pointless. Think i must just invest in some nappies and be bloody done with it.
Oh well, best be off.......

Monday, 25 January 2010

The 7.32 from Oddsville.......

The small rotund man looked over his shoulder, one last check to make sure the coast was clear. The alley way he was walking down was dank and dark, and a scurrying sound from behind one of the bins caught his attention for a second. He approached the door at the end of the alley, its paint peeled away, and the small frosted window was cracked. His heart felt as though it was in his mouth, as he raised his hand, he hesitated for a second. Should he go through with it? he still had time to turn and walk away. Return to the warm bosom of his wife, safe and clean and wholesome, but he simply couldn’t resist, this desire burned away at his very core, his limp attempt at denial was futile, something compelled him to rap three times on the door.

His heart rate quickened even further as he heard footsteps approaching the door. It slowly opened, and from the darkness within, a whispering voice said. "Password please."
"Er…….I’m sorry, I don’t know it, I’m new you see, I have……. er, never done anything like this before."
Even though he couldn’t see the man behind the door, he could somehow tell from his voice that he began to smile. "Ah, new blood, excellent. Come in."
The door opened with a creak, and the man stepped into a long hallway. Small lights struggled to light the length of it, and as he followed the stranger down the hall, he tried to wipe the nervous sweat away from his palms.
"How did you get to hear about us?" said the stranger without looking at the man.
"Er, well, you get to hear, you know."
The stranger laughed and turned to the man. "Well it doesn’t matter how you found us, just that you did, mmm?"
"Yes, I suppose so." Said the man as he giggled nervously.

The stranger opened the door to a large room. Inside men of all ages, sizes and denominations sat facing forward. In front of them was a large white screen, and an almost overwhelming sense of anticipation crackled in the air. The hushed conversations stopped as the two men entered.
"Brothers, a fledgling fly’s among us. Welcome him like he is one of our own. Brother. Your name please……."
The man’s eyes scanned the room nervously; he swallowed hard and said "Derek."
The entire congregation greeted him, and simultaneously did the secret signal. Derek had only heard rumours about this, and now he knew for certain that it was true. At last he had seen it with his own eyes. Everyman in the room clenched his fist, and raised it into the air. Then they all pulled their fists down twice, as if pulling on an imaginary cord.
"The stranger looked at Derek……."Brother?"

Derek felt the pride well up within him. He slowly clenched his fist, and as every set of eyes in the room fell upon him, he raised it into the air, and pulled it down twice.
"Toot toot," was the simultaneous response from the gathering.
The stranger smiled and said "Well done brother Derek, well done."
He ushered Derek towards the front of the assembly, and said, "You can sit with me tonight brother, just until you find your feet."
Derek sat down on a rickety chair, and the stranger walked to the front and stood before the screen.
"Brothers, welcome to one and all, let me just take this opportunity to welcome brother Derek into our little fold, and hope that his time here with us is an enjoyable one. We can deal with the formalities later brother, paper work etc. but now it is time to welcome our glorious leader. Please be upstanding for Brother Stephen, our Grand Master."

Every man in the room stood to attention, Derek followed suit. From the left of the room, a tall silver haired gentleman strode purposefully into the room. He turned and stood before the congregation, and gave the toot toot salute. All the men responded, Derek included. Derek had never felt so excited, he had never felt so at peace with himself, and he had never felt so ‘as one’ with a bunch of human beings as he did right now.
The man that had originally greeted Derek shouted "Gentlemen, SHIRTS OFF." All the men ripped open their shirts, and threw them into the air.

Never before had Derek been greeted with such a sight. It was truly magnificent, something to behold. The men were all different shapes and sizes, some had hairy chests, and some were clean shaven, some fat, some thin, but they all had one glorious thing in common. They all proudly sported bright shiny golden nipple clamps. And hanging between the clamps was a gold chain, and hanging from that gold chain was a guard’s whistle. Tears welled in Derek’s eyes, and even though his chest was clamp free, he still puffed it out, and held his head high.
"Step forward brother Derek," said Master Stephen.

Derek walked proudly to the front, and stood before the Grand Master. Derek looked down, and there laying upon a scarlet velvet cushion edged with gold braid, was his very own clamps. They shone as bright as the brightest star, and he couldn’t wait to feel the cold metal clamped firmly onto his erect nipples.
"With these golden clamps, I bestow upon thee brother Derek, the greatest honour that can be bestowed upon any spotter. We welcome thee into the fellowship that we call the 'Clamptits'. May thy clamps for ever shine, thy chain forever flow freely, and thy whistle forever toot. Look after them brother Derek, and they will serve thee well. Gentlemen, I give you…….Brother Derek."
The congregation all said "Brother Derek" together, then gave the toot toot salute. Derek looked deep into the Grand master’s eyes as he felt the icy cold clamps pinch his erect nipples. He almost felt a stirring in his loins as he felt the chain brush his chest. He felt the whistle swaying to and fro. He held it between thumb and forefinger, and raised it to his lips. With two powerful puffs, he let out a shrill toot toot into the room, the gathering raised their whistles and tooted back in recognition of their new member.
"Please be seated Brother Derek" said the Grand Master, "It is now time for the main event."
From behind him, Derek heard the whir of a projector, and on the large screen in front of him a grainy film of the unmistakable 'Flying Scotsman' burst fourth. Sighs of appreciation could be heard all around the room, and the air of excitement rose to fever pitch. Derek couldn't believe he was now one of them, one of the steam train enthusiasts clan. He had waited for this moment for so long, and now he was finally here.

He looked around him, and could see his fellow spotters were most definitely excited. He had felt a stirring himself, but wondered if there was some kind of etiquette. Just at that moment the Grand Master stood up sporting his own obvious excitement, and bellowed......"ALL ABOARD".......then blew his whistle. All around the room one could hear the sound of release. Tears welled in Derek's eyes once again. For so many years he had had to appreciate steam trains in private, his little guilty secret that he kept from his wife. Stolen moments when she was at her Mother's, those secret password locked folders on the computer, containing thousands of images of beautiful beautiful steam trains. How he would appreciate them, as he watched picture after picture flash before his eyes. The steam bellowing from the funnels, the beautiful lines that shaped every locomotive, the fires that burned deep within their beating hearts, but now he could appreciate them guilt free, here, in this place, he was complete.

"STOKE THE BOILERS GENTLEMEN, STOKE THE BOILERS" shouted the Grand Master, his face ruddy and sweating. Whistles swung violently to and fro, as the appreciation reached a crescendo. As the 'Flying Scotsman pulled into the station, it released a huge plume of steam, at this point, every man in the room raised his whistle to his quivering lips, and with a heavenly synchronicity, tooted as loudly as they could. The release was audible and simultaneous.......
The image on the screen flickered, and eventually ceased. Whistles fell from lips, and swung gently to a halt. The Grand Master slowly stood and removed his nipple clamps, "Same time next week gentlemen?".......

Wednesday, 13 January 2010

Punch monastery into the sat nav will Ya.......

It’s official, I am allergic to wheat. I have suspected for years that I might be. After eating bread etc I would feel like someone had inserted a bicycle pump up my rectum, and started pumping vigorously! So with all the "New year, new me" …….(It has worn off already. I have welcomed back with open arms, the old "The world is full of cunts" me!) …….cobblers, I took the plunge and decided to get it sorted once and for all.

Instead of going down the traditional route of making an appointment to see my doctor (whoever he or she is), via a Nazi receptionist, I took a wander down the holistic path. At our local "Mega" Tesco’s there is a little cubby hole, and inside is a little Chinese doctor, and his helpful female assistant. For the sum of thirty-five pounds, they can do a test, and it will tell you all the things that you are allergic to. It’s a simple and painless procedure which involves taking a small sample of hair, which they then send off to some laboratory somewhere. They work some voodoo magic on it, and lo and behold a few days later, you have your results.

Now, being somewhat follically challenged, and shaving the remaining hair to a closely cropped no. three, for one un-nerving moment I feared she might say that there was not going to be enough hair for the sample, and she would have to visit little Andy for a donation from his little hat! In the few seconds as we stood there, this whole scenario played out in my head, in a kind of mortifying slow motion. There I am standing in the middle of "Mega" Tesco’s, with my trousers around my knees, shirt pulled up over the protruding beer gut, staring down at a petit Chinese lady, who is kneeling down, and coming at me nervously with a small pair of scissors. All the while my wife, the Chinese doctor, and a rapidly gathering crowd look on with jaw slacking bemusement! Fortunately it never came to this, as the young lady coped admirably with my lack of scalp carpet, and managed to get enough from round the back somewhere.

So off it went in a little plastic bag, and I was told to wait a few days, and she would phone me to tell me it was ready. A few days passed, and she did indeed phone me. She asked if she could "speak to a mista Moo" and proceeded to tell me that my results were back, and to come in to see them on Saturday, and they would analyse them with me. Saturday comes around, and Miss Marple and I toddle off to "Mega" Tesco’s

"Ah Goo afternoo Mr Moo, here are your results."
Yes, there it was in big bright red letters…….ALLERGIC TO WHEAT…….It was even circled in red (Must be serious). There were other things too. Caffeine, citrus fruits, tomatoes, pepper, spices, fortunately these were not in red, and therefore I am not so allergic to them.
So, thank you God. That is not one, but several more avenues of pleasure closed off. I haven’t got much left. Fags when a few years ago, the only things I had left to cling to in an attempt to keep a grip on some kind of sanity was my beer, Jack Daniels, curries, big cups of tea and crusty cheese rolls. If I stick rigidly to what would be the new regime, all that would be gone, and all I would have left would be the XBOX and wanking. Having said that, the latter could be in jeopardy due to an unforeseen, and very unwelcome bout of some kind of ‘Tennis elbow’…….I could practice left handed I suppose, it’s not the same though is it?.......sigh.

Anyway, I then had three lots of pills plonked in front of me, and told that a good session of acupuncture would do me the world of good. I declined the opportunity. They seemed very keen; the little Chinese doctor’s assistant had to virtually wrestle the little Chinese doctor to the floor to stop him from jabbing me with hundreds of needles.

So, there you have it. I might as well join a monastery. I virtually have no avenues of pleasure left, and I have a head start…….(Eh!, see what I did there, eh!) on the monks hair cut thing. Or I could just say fuck it, and carry on regardless. What is worse, a clean living life of salad, fruit, and abject misery, or having an imaginary man thrust an imaginary bicycle pump up my bottom?
PS. I wonder what the monastic stance on self abuse is?.......

About Me

Smileville, Smileshire, United Kingdom
Don't let the bastards grind you down! peace and love x