Filthy Lucre.......

Hello again amigos, Davidson and Mule here…..Hey that sounds a bit like a cop show doesn’t it? I could be onto something here. I mean there is obviously room in the TV schedules for a cop show isn’t there? Practically crying out for one! Yes I am starting to envisage it. Jim would obviously be the brash, hard, tough talking, no nonsense one, and I would be the smooth suited, good with computers, ladies man. I think the Rascal would have to go out the window though, we would have to have something a lot flashier. Nothing modern, no, a classic. An E-type jag, yes that’s it. The opening titles could have some funky jazz/ hip hop track playing in the background, and you would see Jim dive in through the passenger window, while I casually slide over the bonnet, to get to the drivers side. There would be some shots of us careering through some cardboard boxes, and diving through the air in slow motion, while duel wielding a couple of magnums. Then a man with an unfeasibly low and gravely voice would say "Davidson and Mule, they’ve got zero tolerance, they’ve got a mission, they’ve got each other…….Davidson and Mule, tonight only on itv1". Oh well, I seem to have let my imagination run away with me…..now there’s a thing!
Well what exotic places have we reached, what dizzy heights have we scaled. Well, Hunstanton actually. I don’t think the rascal is quite up to touring Europe yet. It won’t actually go any faster than forty miles an hour. I am relieved to report that the clothing situation has improved a little. The leggings were starting to chaff, and a crop top really doesn’t keep you warm this time of year. I managed to wear an elderly sales assistant down in a charity shop. I bought a pair of flared jeans (the one’s with the added triangular bits at the bottom, that make them extra flared), and an anorak. I got her down from five pounds for the lot, to two pounds, although if the truth be known, I think I just got her down! I said to Jim why doesn’t he treat himself to some new clobber, but I think he has grown quite fond of the shell suit. Money is obviously tight, but we are managing to make a little. Jim does a bit of stand up in the internet cafes, while I alternate between doing this stuff, and passing the hat round.
Money really is a problem, and a mystery to me, and always has been. I have never been able to get my head around anything financial at all. I don’t know why it is, but as soon as anybody starts talking finances, I slip into a sort of coma. I remember when Miss Marple and myself had to go and see some man about our mortgage. We followed him up to this little room, and we all sat down. Then to my astonishment, Miss Marple and this man started talking in a language I had never heard before. They both seemed to be fluent in it, but I was lost. Variable rats, index kinked, fixed roots, cash back, unit trusses, double overhead cam…….What the bloody hell were they talking about?.
Of course I understand the basic principles of money, but it’s all this high brow stuff that leaves me bamboozled. Does it all need to be this complicated I ask myself? Like everything human beings get involved in, we have to twist it, turn it, and generally bugger it up beyond all comprehension. I mean I understand that way back in cave man days and such the like, one caveman would start to covert his neighbours ox…..and things. So I suppose at first there was a lot of bashing each other on the head, and running off with each others oxen…..and stuff. So I suppose somebody woke up one morning and called a meeting. I should imagine he or she, said something like, "Look, you know how we all keep wanting each others stuff and that, and we keep bashing each other on the head to get it, well surly there must be an easier, and less painful way of getting the stuff". All the cavemen and women looked around at each other, and nodded in agreement. Financial caveman carried on, "Why don’t we have a system where if any of us wants something that someone else has got, we have to swap it with them, for something we have got". All the cavemen and women looked at each other in amazement, and agreed this was a brilliant idea. Thus our financial system was born. Of course as time went by, people realized that it could take ages to come to an agreement about swapping, I mean who is to say if one man’s ox is worth another man’s wheelbarrow, or something. Is a jug worth one or two loaves of bread? It was all very tricky indeed, and fights would regularly break out. This was of course what was trying to be avoided in the first place! So somebody eventually discovered gold, and they decided amongst themselves that a wheelbarrow was worth this amount of gold, or a loaf was worth that amount of gold etc etc.
It is at this point in our history, that it starts to become tricky for me. It was after some time, that someone had the bright idea of making coins and notes. These were to represent the amount of gold one had, but made it much more portable. I understand that it is a lot easier to carry around a few sheets of paper, than it is to have a pocket full of heavy gold, but I think this is where it all started to go awry. For a start, If I am correct (and there is a high chance that I’m not!) I believe a country has to have the exact amount of paper money and coinage in circulation, as it does have gold in it's vaults. This is all very well, but does anyone ever check? Are there little men with clip boards, beards, and corduroy jackets, that go round from country to country, checking the amount of gold a country has is correct, and above board? What’s to stop a country just running off notes willy nilly? America is apparently the richest country in the world…..who says? They could just be printing off dollar bills like there is no tomorrow.
The thing that really blows my head off, is stocks and shares and all that malarkey. What are all those people doing in there? All in multicolored jackets, waving their arms about, shouting a lot, thrusting bits of paper in the air. Bloody hell, it’s madness. "What did you do today at work dear"? Asks Mrs. Stockbroker. "Did you have your purple and orange jacket on?"
"Yes I did" says Mr. Stockbroker.
"Did you wave your bit of paper in the air"?
"Oh yes, and I got it really high. I was stretching really hard like a good boy, and got it higher than anyone else’s"
"Oh well done dear, what a good boy you are, tell me, how was the shouting"?
"Well, I had to send out for some strepsils, I was shouting louder than anybody else"
"That’s my boy"
What a load of bollocks quite frankly. Do you know, I sometimes think it would be better if we went back to bashing each other over the head again.
Anyway, Jim is coming to the end of his stand up routine now. He is finishing off with the one about the two lesbian Nuns, a large candle, and a red faced Bishop. That one gets em every time. Hopefully be somewhere a little more exotic next time around.
Cheerio for now. Andy and Jim.
Ps. Can anyone tell me what a bloody Hedge fund is?.......

Thelma and Louise.......Bloody amateurs!

I AM FREE!…….Or should I say, we are free. Yes Jim Davidson and I have escaped from ‘The great Yarmouth home for the immeasurably bewildered’. I suppose you heard about the mini Tsunami that was supposedly heading for the east coast, well it was then that we managed to escape. The local fire brigade had paid a visit to inspect our defences, and in all the ensuing chaos, a door was left open. Well me and Jim couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity. We slipped through the door, and out into fresh air. Boy it feels good to be free again. The smell of fresh air in my nostrils, the weight lifted from my shoulders, yes freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose alright.
Of course we are technically fugitives, and to be honest, it’s a feeling I could get used to. Yes me and old Jimbo are like Bonny and Clyde, Butch Cassidy and the sun dance kid, Thelma and Louise! We are free spirits, children of the road, masters of our own destiny. We are going to live one day at a time. Live for today, and to hell with tomorrow. And do you know what, I don’t care if we are cut down in a hail of gunfire after we have held up a bank, or turned over a post office. No, because we are desperados, and we don’t let anyone get in our way man. The world is our oyster. Tomorrow Bondi beech hanging out with the surf babes, the next day Hanging out with the ’Crips’ in south side L.A. Cruising along Route 66 with the wind in our hair, and yesterday behind us.
Alright, so we have only got as far as Lowestoft, but hey it’s a start. It’s not actually quite as easy being a fugitive as I had imagined. The only vehicle we managed to hot wire, was a ‘Bedford Rascal’. Not quite the mode of transport we had hoped for as we started our life on the road, but still, better than nothing. One of the main problems we faced after our initial escape, was finding some clothes. We spent the first few hours wandering the streets of Yarmouth wearing the regulation issue smocks that we wore inside. We quickly realised that we stuck out like a sore thumb, and so had to resort to desperate means. We didn’t have a penny between us, so we had to improvise. We stalked the back gardens of Yarmouth looking for washing lines. The problem was, it was getting dark, and so it wasn’t easy to see exactly what it was that we were pinching. We grabbed some stuff, and headed back to the rascal. As a result of this, Jim is wearing a purple shell suit, with prison sandals, while I seem to have drawn the short straw on the clothing front, as I am sporting a pair of turquoise leggings, and a crop top! I am beginning to wonder if the smock wasn’t such a bad look after all.
For the time being, I will have to do the blogs from internet cafes, that is until we can get ourselves a laptop. We will have to do a ram raid on ‘Cash converters’ or something. To make living conditions a little more bearable, we are planning to convert the rascal into a camper van. A little tight for space maybe, but desperados don’t need a lot of room. While we are on the subject of living conditions, Jim does seem to have a slight problem with flatulence. Miss Marple would confirm that bottom trumpeting was something I had seemed to turn into an art form, but Jim is in a different league. The sleeping arrangements at the moment, are that we are topping and tailing in the back of the rascal. This means that I am in close proximity to Jim’s arse all night, and spend most of it extremely wind swept. I am actually starting to get chapped lips!
Anyway, I had better finish up. Jim is telling a disabled girl a joke about a black man, a Jew, and a Nazi war criminal. I am sitting here tapping away wearing leggings a crop top and lipsil. We are starting to get some funny looks, so going to move on. Where? Well we just don’t know man. Catch you later dudes…….
PS. Do you know the best thing about my new found freedom. Is it the smell of the sea air, the sound of birds singing in the morning. Maybe it’s the open road stretching before us, or the not knowing what delights tomorrow has in store for us…….No, it’s none of these things. It’s finally getting that fucking nokia out of my arse!

Bangs Ghoulies and the Minister for Health.......

It’s a black day in the world of mule. I haven’t been this depressed since Michael Schumacher had Damon Hill off to cheat him out of the 1994 Formula 1 world championship. Just this morning, I discovered my first grey pubic hair. Reaching 40 was pretty earth shattering, but not as bad as coming to the realisation that I have elderly testicles! How has this happened?, and why only one? I suppose it’s got to start somewhere, I suppose one of the little buggers has got to make the break, and show the rest the way. I suppose they will all be following suit now, yes, grey will be the new gingery brown. You won’t be anyone in the pubic world unless you are a shade of grey. I guess the only consolation will be that I will have a distinguished scrotum!
Anyway, enough of my pubic problems. So where have I been, and why no updates. Well, Jim Davidson and me have been in solitary confinement, due to an unfortunate incident involving the Health Minister. A couple of weeks ago, The Health minister, what ever his name is, came to visit ‘The Great Yarmouth home for the immeasurably bewildered’, as part of a nation wide tour of mental welfare institutions. He had invited his counterparts from various countries, to show them what a wonderful mental health system we have. On the day in question, Davina had given us all a pep talk, and told us to be on our best behaviour. We were all to stand in a line, and politely greet and shake hands with the various visitors. This sounded to me a little like the line up at the ‘Royal variety Performance’, only they don’t wear dressing gowns and dribble. We were to only speak if we were spoken to, and there was to be absolutely no swearing. So, as Davina was informed that the visitors were imminent, we all dutifully lined up. First in line was Father O’Tooled up, and standing next to him was Nigel. He had been made to wear a long sleeved shirt to disguise his self harming. They had even gone to the trouble to take his dressing gown away from him, to have it dry cleaned. Davina didn’t think the guests would want to be confronted with a manic depressive’s stale vomit. Next to Nigel was Cleopatra. She was asked to wear her normal clothes instead of her usual get up. She wasn’t happy about this, but she was bribed with the promise of getting her foot spa back. Rafael stood next to her. Rafael was heavily sedated due to the fact that he is a mass murderer, and today of all days was not a good time for more blood shed, said Davina. I asked her if in her opinion there was ever a ‘good’ time for bloodshed, and was quickly pocked in the back with the electric cattle prod. The prod only comes out on special occasions. Normally it’s only Christmas that it gets an airing, so today must have been very special!
So there we were, all lined up all neat and tidy. Davina bounced around like a cat on a hot tin roof, as the guests could be seen walking down the corridor towards us. “Ok everybody”, said Davina “Break a leg”. Where the bloody hell did she think we were, on stage in the west end, silly cow. Apart from being a ridiculous thing to say, it was probably a little unwise, Rafael didn’t need much of an excuse at the best of times, so virtually giving him the green light could be seen as a little foolish.
In they came. The Health Minister all suited up, with a gaggle of hangers on and general toadies. Following them were the foreign guests. There were people of all nationalities, and out of the corner of my eye, I’m sure I saw Jim lick his lips in anticipation! This could all go very wrong I was thinking to myself, as Davina guided the crowd along the line, bowing and scraping as she went. The Health Minister shook hands with Father O’Tooled up, who offered to show him what was under his cassock. The Minister politely declined, and was herded along the line as quickly as possible. He was swept past Nigel and Cleopatra, but stopped to talk to Rafael. Davina’s eyes nearly popped out of her head, and the veins on her temples were at bursting point.
“And how are you today?” asked the Minister in his very best ‘couldn’t give a shit, but disguises it as only a politician can’ voice.
Rafael gave the Minister one of those side ways glances, that dogs give each other, just before it all kicks off.
“Are you a liberal democrat?” asked Rafael in a chilling voice.
“Good Lord no”, replied the Minister, not realizing how those three little words had potentially saved him from a gruesome, and very public death.
By this time Davina’s Temples were visibly pulsating, and the Minister was now being frog marched along the line.
He stopped at Jim, and said “Hello, aren’t you er…….what’s his name. Oh you know…….er…….your somebody famous aren’t you?”
Davina jumped in, “Yes you’re quite right Minister, this is Jim, Jim Davidson, he is our only celebrity guest at the moment, and he is responding very well to treatment”.
“Hello Guv’ner” said Jim, “It’s a bleeding travesty I am in here you know, can’t you do something?”
The health Minister smiled like Dracula, just before he sinks his fangs in your neck, and said, “I’m sorry Mr Davidson, I am afraid it’s out of my hands”.
Davina, who was by now virtually hyperventilating, shoved the Minister along the line towards me, the relief written all over her face, thinking that the worst potential flash point, apart from Rafael decapitating the Minister, had been avoided. Just as the Minister reached out his hand towards me, one of the guests came face to face with Jim. He was an oriental gentleman. He was very smartly dressed, and very courteous. Then it happened.
“Hey up, so what kind are you then?” said Jim to the oriental man, “Are you a chinky, or a Jappo?”
The oriental gentleman said in a perfect Oxbridge accent, “Actually sir, I am neither, I am South Korean”.
Jim winked at him, and blurted out, “Well your all the same aint cha. You’ve all got slitty eyes and eat dogs”.
It was genuinely a shame to see Davina being dragged down the corridor to the medical room by her heels, especially after all the time and effort she had put into this visit. Needless to say, the electric cattle prod was wielded about like Luke Skywalkers light sabre. I was apparently guilty by association. Me and Jim were marched to the solitary confinement section in handcuffs, and all the way Jim was shouting “Mental mental chicken oriental”, over and over again!
Apart from that, it’s everything as usual. I suppose the only redeeming feature about being in here at this time of year, is I have managed to completely avoid the lunacy that is Halloween, and Bonfire night. I have never understood the attraction of either of these events. Out of the two, Halloween must be the craziest, for a start it’s an American tradition, and they have never been well known for good ideas.
Apart from that, it seems to fly in the face of every rule that a parent tells their child. Right from day one, parents monotonously drum into their children that…….
1. There are no such things as ghosts. Especially when little Rebecca comes down the stairs crying, saying “Daddy daddy there is a ghost in my room”, to which the parents reply “Don’t be so silly, I have told you a thousand times, there are no such things as ghosts. Besides, your Mother and me are trying to recapture our youth by smoking this joint, so go back to bed”.
2. Never accept sweets from strangers, absolutely never never never. Don’t talk to strangers, and never go off with a stranger, and
3. Always be good, best behaviour, respect your elders, other people and there property.
All very good values, and ways to behave I am sure you will agree. But on October the 31st every year, some sort of madness besets us, and parents all over the country dress their children up like something from the occult, and say to them, “Right, I want you to go up to that strangers door, knock on it, and ask him to give you something nice. If he doesn’t, throw this brick through his fucking window”!…….Bizarre.
Bonfire night is just as mad really. For 364 days of the year, MI5 do their absolute best to prevent the public from obtaining ordinance. This is obviously a commendable attempt to stop terrorist outrages, leaving people dead and injured. Then, one day a year, the madness descends again, and we can all go into our local newsagents, and buy what amounts to TNT!. Not only that, but how much fun can it be really to stand in a freezing cold field, in the pitch black, and watch somebody light a fire? It’s only because it’s a bloody tradition that we all carry on with this ridiculous behaviour, just like Christmas really, but don’t get me started on that. Think about it, just step back a minute, and look at it from a rational perspective. If a friend of yours said to you, ”How do you fancy coming to a party I’m throwing. It’s on January the 18th, and it will basically consist of standing in a field in the freezing cold and the pitch black, and then I’m going to light a fire, and endanger you and your children’s lives, by letting off some explosives“. You would justifiably tell him to bugger off! But there we all stand, stuffing sparklers into our children’s hands. (Remember rule number 4. Don’t play with fire)! Even though little Rebecca is saying Daddy daddy, it’s blinding me, and my hands are burning, we tell them to shut up, and stop disrespecting traditions. Then we all wander over to the burger van to catch botulism.
The A&E departments all over the country must curse our government for letting this insanity go on every year. People lose all sense of reason on this particular date. They stick enormous exploding rockets in milk bottles, and light them. Then when it fails to go off, go and stick their face over it to see what the problem is! I can’t imagine this happening in other walks of life. The army are storming an enemy compound, with the objective of blowing up their ammunition dump. Captain Price leans towards Private Jones and says…….
“Right son, I want you to go and plant the C4 on that ammunition dump, and get back here toot sweet”.
“Right o sir” says Private Jones. He dashes off and plants the explosives, runs back and takes cover. They cover their ears and wait for the bang.
“It doesn’t seem to have gone off sir” says Private Jones.
“Don’t worry son, ill just go and have a look”! It doesn’t happen does it?
I have never been quite sure what exactly it is we are supposed to be celebrating/commemorating anyway. Is it the fact that someone tried to blow up the houses of parliament, or the fact that he, and his fellow conspirators were thwarted? Either way, it’s not much to celebrate is it? Failing to blow up bastards that without doubt deserve it, should not be celebrated, or he was a rubbish terrorist, something else that doesn’t deserve a knees up!
Oh well, Better get back to the cell I suppose. Posh and Becks have been abandoned. After weeks of scraping, clawing, and digging, it slowly dawned on us, that we were on the second floor, and would only have succeeded in escaping into someone else’s cell.
Cheerio for now.

Every little helps.......

Psst…….Andy here again. Well I’m still here. They haven’t wised up and realised I am a genius, and not mad yet. I don’t know how long they are planning on keeping me here, but not for much longer if me and Jim have got anything to do with it. We have formed an escape committee, and are presently digging two tunnels, one from each of our cells. You know how in the ‘Great escape’ they named their tunnels ‘Tom, Dick and Harry’, well we have named ours ‘ Posh and Becks’. I have to admit we haven’t got that far yet, I am using a pair of nail clippers that Norman smuggled in for me, and Jim is using a tea spoon that he stole from the canteen. Anyway, I will report on the progress of Posh and Becks at a later date. I suppose there are one or two advantages to being in here. I don’t have to go to work, get stuck in traffic jams, go shopping. Oh God going to Tescos used to be like hell on earth to for me. The hell started way before getting in the actual shop. The feeling of utter despair used to hit me as soon as I saw the queue for the bloody car park. This of course was not because there were that many people trying to get in there, it was because of the idle bastards who insisted on crawling round and round, trying to find a space right near the door. You know the one’s, those arseholes who just stop in the middle of the road because they have spotted someone just leaving the shop, who might have a parking space right near the door, that they can nip into. Why oh why oh why can’t I be allowed to have a rocket launcher. The next time I and every other poor soul is confronted with one of these twats, it should be my human right to step out of my car, hoist the rocket launcher on to my shoulder, and blast the bastard right out of the car park! But alas, they won’t listen to me. Even if there are parking spaces right near the doors, I am not allowed to park in them. No, that’s because I am not a mother with child. Why do they have special spaces just for them? Would it really hurt poor fragile little Joshua or Victoria to walk fifty feet every now and again? If it’s not them, it’s the bloody disabled. God what a bunch of moaning gits they are aren’t they. So you have only got one leg, I have got a bit of a headache, but it apparently doesn’t entitle me to park near the doors! The thing that always amuses me about disabled parking spaces, is that when it is raining, the bright orange paint that covers them, turns into a slippery death trap. Oh the irony! I am quite frankly fed up with these cordoned of parking areas for ‘special’ people. Where is it going to stop? It surely won’t be long before we have a ‘Gay and lesbian’ parking zone. Or a ‘Muslim parking area’ Lets not stop there, why not have ‘Jewish parking bays’, although these should be kept as far away from each other as possible! ‘East European parking zones’ (which they tarmac themselves) could be set up. How long will it be before some sort of car park ushers are employed to direct you to the relevant parking area. In a similar vein to those bloody ‘Greeters’ you get just inside the doors in supermarkets. “Hello sir. I hope you have a pleasant retail experience with us here today”. or, “If there is anything I can help you with, please don’t hesitate to ask”. What about telling that fucking woman in the frozen vegetables aisle, to stop leaving her fucking trolley in the middle of the aisle, so that nobody else can get passed, and inform her that although it may come as a bit of a shock, there are actually other people on the planet apart from her. This will have to wait of course, as I am still out in the car park. Where was I?…….oh yes, the car park ushers. They would obviously be issued with a fluorescent vest, which would no doubt make them feel very important, and it would be their job to direct you to the relevant car parking zone, depending on your special needs or requirements.
Attendant “Good morning sir, I am your ‘ Vehicle parking zone attendant’, and I will be making your stay with us here today, as pleasant as possible. Now what special needs or requirements does sir have”?
Me “Er none really, I just want to park”.
Attendant “I’m sorry sir, I can’t release you into the parking area, until I have ascertained your special individual requirements”.
Me “Well that’s very kind of you, but I don’t have any special needs, I just want to park, and get on with the shopping”.
Attendant “Well I’m sorry sir, but your not passing this check point until I have fully assessed you. Are you a homosexual sir?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Have you ever thought about it?”
Me” No”.
Attendant “Oh come now sir, I think we all have wondered what a little dabble would be like, I know I have.”
Me “Well I haven’t”.
Attendant “Are you disabled?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Are you a Muslim or any other member of a religious minority?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Immigrant?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Are you a Mother with child?”
Me “Do I look like it?”
Attendant “Single parent family?”
Me “No”.
Attendant “Mmm, well I have been right through my list, and you don’t seem to be very special at all do you sir. Ok, You will have to go and park over there, in the ’Nothing special area’.
Me “Well how far is it?”
Attendant “Just over there sir, look there is a sign, here, use my binoculars”.
Inside the shop is no better. I have already mentioned the bloody woman with the huge trolley parked in the middle of the aisle. Incidentally, this woman is guaranteed to have an enormous four wheel drive vehicle parked in a ‘Mother and child’ slot. In the back of this behemoth of a car, there will be two specifically tailored, bullet proof titanium and carbon fibre child car seats for little Joshua and Victoria, and behind them, a dog guard for the spaniels. Richard, her husband, will be something big in advertising, and they will live in a mock Tudor five bedroom house in a small village. Victoria loves her pony, and Joshua is of course captain of the his school croquet team…….Where is that rocket launcher?
No shopping trip would be complete of course, without having to listen to some dickhead talking loudly into his mobile phone. He is asking his wife if they have got any coco-pops, and also telling her that Gavin and himself closed that vital deal today…….FUCK RIGHT OFF. Why do people shout into mobile phones? Do they understand the concept of a mobile phone? I sometimes wonder how the hell I survived before the days of mobile phones. I remember all those years ago, when I would happily swan off miles and miles in the car to somewhere or other. Not once did it cross my mind that I might break down, and if I had of broken down, I would have simply walked to the nearest phone box, or called at the nearest house, where some benevolent lady would let me use her phone to call for assistance, while she offered me tea and cake to sustain me. Now I can’t venture upstairs to the toilet without being laden down with communications equipment. Quite what disaster might beset me on my arduous journey upstairs I don’t know, but there I am, mobile phone, spare mobile phone. Battery charger, spare battery charger portable telecommunications aerial in case I can’t get a signal…….dear God what has happened to us all?
Anyway, what’s been happening in the asylum, sorry Davina doesn’t like us using that term, she prefers ‘Mental welfare environment’. Well not a lot really. Me, Jim, Cleopatra, Nigel, Rafael, and Father O’Tooled up were in the T.V. Room the other day, and Davina came in and informed us that the health minister would be visiting us next week, on a whistle stop tour of the countries ’Mental welfare establishments’. She said we were to all be on our best behaviour. In other news, Jim is still not responding to treatment. He was apparently still shouting “Shirt lifter” even when he was strapped to the bed, and plugged into the mains. Nigel the manic depressive had to be talked down off the roof of the gymnasium again. This is becoming a regular occurrence, and I have to say can be quite entertaining. I did think it was very tactless of Jim to shout up to Nigel the last time he was up there, would he mind threatening to kill himself on Tuesdays in future, as there wasn’t much on the telly that day. The Pols are still winking and blowing kisses at me, and I have to say, that due to the lack of female companionship these last few weeks, it has surprisingly put a bit of a spring in my step! Nothing much else to report really, will write again after the health ministers visit. Cheerio for now.
Yours Andy.

Is that an Uzi, or are you just pleased to see me?.......

Hello again. Sneaked into Davina’s office, got to keep an eye out for the Polish though. Had a close call yesterday, I presume you know about me having to store the Nokia up my bottom, well I was nearly caught red handed. It needed charging, but I didn’t want to leave it laying around in full view, so I decided to charge it while it was still hidden! I was cleaning my teeth, and so was facing into the cell, so my back was stupidly on full view.
All was going well until one of the Polish nurses saw the mains lead hanging down between my legs from under my regulation smock. I heard a gaggle of Polish shouting from behind me, and then my cell door opening. I spun round to be confronted by four huge nurses, all standing there with their arms folded. They all gazed down to the wire hanging there, and then back up to me. One of the nurses then said to me in pigeon English “What wire doing coming from out of bottom?” I knew that if ever there was a time in my life that I needed to think on my feet, this was most certainly it. The problem was, that my mouth and my brain seemed to be completely at logger heads. It went something like this…….
Mouth “I”
Brain “Come on think”
Mouth “I”
Brain “Don’t repeat yourself, it looks suspicious”
Mouth “I am”
Brain “Brilliant, two words, that will throw them off the scent”
Mouth “A homosexual”
Brain “WHAT?”
Mouth “And I”
Brain “Oh dear God, where is he going with this?”
Mouth “Have a vibrator…..in my bottom”
Brain “Sigh”
Mouth “It runs on rechargeable batteries”
Brain “mmm, green, that should get a few votes”
Mouth “And I have decided to recharge it, while it is……. in situ”
Brain “An unlikely scenario, but they are Polish, and therefore may hopefully not be completely au fait with British customs”
Four sets of Polish eyebrows raised in one perfect synchronized movement. “You English men. You like the bottom fun yes. We Polish men are real men, and like the front bottom fun, yes”
They all started to laugh, and jostle each other about in and East European sort of way. I had started to relax a little by now, as I thought this situation couldn’t possibly get any worse. Just when all the laughing and jostling had died down, we all heard “Fucking shirt lifter”. Oh dear oh dear oh dear Jim, I thought to myself, will you never learn. With this, all four Pols rushed from my cell, and bundled Jim down the corridor to the ‘Un-politically correct correctional facility’. The screams kept me awake for the rest of the night.
We had our visit from Father O’toole yesterday, or ‘Father tooled up’ as I like to call him. I am still very wary of anyone or anything remotely Catholic. Despite much electric shock therapy, I am still convinced the Pope has put a price on my head. I am extremely concerned about the bulge under Father tooled up’s cassock. If that’s not a pair of Uzi 9mm sub machine guns under there, I am a Dutchman. I try my damndest not to be left alone with him. I have this vision of him getting me into an out of the way room, on some pretext of giving me spiritual guidance or something, then whipping up his cassock, and spraying me with hot lead.
I do wish we could wear our own clothes, I do hate these regulation smocks we are made to wear. It’s not great indoors, but outside in the exercise yard, it can be very drafty. Of course I am most worried about the wind whipping up my smock, and exposing my Nokia. I have found the only way to conquer this problem, is to tuck the smock in between my legs. Unfortunately this means that I have to sort of mince along to keep the smock in place. This of course is doing nothing to help my reputation with the Pols. I am getting pretty fed up with them winking at me, and blowing kisses as I am standing in the dinner queue. Jim came back from the ‘Un-politically correct correctional facility’ earlier. It was good to see him still defiant. As he was being marched handcuffed back to his cell, he could still be heard shouting various politically incorrect phrases at the top of his voice. “Shirt lifter”…….Nik Nik”…….Sambo”…….Chalkie”. He has got his dignity, if nothing else!
Cleopatra next door has had her foot spa taken away. She was not at all pleased about this, and poured the two pints of semi skimmed all over herself before the nurses could confiscate it. Cleopatra, Jim and myself were in the TV room this evening watching ‘Celebrity firing squad’, when a new patient (Or housemate as Davina likes to call us) was brought in. His name is Nigel, and he is apparently a manic depressive. Jim immediately saw this as an opportunity to tell him a joke about a Jew, a Muslim, and a queer. Cleopatra draped herself over him in a queen like way, and it was at this point that the Nokia went off, and he was treated to a muffled ‘oops I did it again’. We have heard he has been put on suicide watch.
I had to have my ‘one to one’ with Davina today. To be honest, I find it very difficult to take anything she says seriously. When you are sitting opposite a mustachioed, monocle wearing, dwarf with a peculiar hair cut, nothing she says seems to matter very much. She is very ‘right on’. Your typical do gooding, slightly femenisty, Guardian reading, equal rights, hug a hoodie, save the planet social worker type of woman. Tries to see the good in people, you know all that kind of stuff. How the hell she see’s any good in Rafael the mass murderer I don’t know. Rafael was found guilty of murdering an entire room of Liberal democrats at one of their constituency meetings. This I suppose is to some extent understandable, but what really upset people I think, is that he then posed them all in sitting positions, gave them all drinks (Which incidentally he bought, even though he had killed the bar staff!), and proceeded to do his racist stand up routine. After he had initially done all the murdering, the building was under siege for two days, while the police tried to talk him out. Things took a turn for the worse when they heard the first ‘A one legged Jewish lesbian walked into a bar’ joke, But the SWAT team were straight in there when he lit a cigarette. Rafael is not permitted to mix with Jim. Davina thinks this could be a deadly cocktail, that could result in a bloodbath. During my ‘one to one’, Davina said she wanted to put my fears about Father Tooled up to rest once and for all. Father tooled up then walked in, and whipped up his cassock. What was under his cassock was not at all what I expected to see, but it was most definitely not a pair of Uzi’s. Father tooled up is now three cells down from me…….Now, where did I put those clogs!

Out of the frying pan, and into the fire.......

Psst…..hello, Andy here. I can’t be long as I think my friend Norman has told you, I am in the Matron’s office, covertly! I don’t know what the hell I’m doing in here, I keep telling everyone, there is nothing wrong with me. Been about a week now that I have been held against my wishes. They keep telling me it’s for my own good. And where the bloody hell is Miss Marple? I suppose Norman told you about the file in the cake fiasco. Very bloody amusing, I don’t know what she is playing at. Apparently I had a funeral and everything. Anyway, everybody in here is absolutely stark raving bloody mental. In the cell, sorry, I mean room next to me, there is a woman who is convinced she is Cleopatra. She tried taking a bath in asses milk yesterday, well I say a bath of asses milk, does a foot spa with two pints of semi skimmed count? You will never believe who is in the room on the other side of me, only Jim bloody Davidson! Yes, apparently he was brought straight here after being kicked off of ‘Hells Kitchen’. They told him he was being flown back to Dubai, but whisked him straight in here. I talk to him through the bars sometimes late at night. We have formed an escape committee. So what’s it like in here I hear you ask. Well apart from being here against my will, it’s not all bad I suppose. We are free to roam the building and the grounds during the day, but it’s lockdown at night. This is when me and Jim take our trips back to the seventies, we both like it back there. The Matron is called Devina. She is four foot ten, has a haircut that looks like someone has put a bowl on her head and cut round it, a small moustache, and occasionally wears a monical. I personally think this is just for show, but I wouldn’t swear by it. She struts around in her air wear boots, followed closely by the nurses. Now these aren’t the female, slightly sexy type, no these are big buggers. Poor old Jim had to go for a counselling session today in the ‘Politically uncorrect correction facility’. He says he is holding out though, and good on him. Jim and myself wander around the place, trying to make as many politically uncorrect comments as we can get away with.
I don’t know how long they are expecting to keep me in here, but me and Jim are planning to go over the wall as soon as we can. After having a ’little chat’ with Davina, I am apparently in here because they say I am suffering from delusions of grandeur. I have told them to stop being ridiculous, and to only speak to me, when they are spoken to. Don’t they know I am a Genius for Christ’s sake? Anyway, better go, because I can hear the guards coming round on their patrol. Thankfully I have made a pretend me from pillows, a grapefruit and a baseball cap, which I have laid in my bed so it looks like I am there……. you see, genius!
Speak to you all soon. I will try and get some sleep sandwiched between Jim Davidson, and Cleopatra…….it’s a funny old world!
Cheers.
P.S. If any of you feel like starting a ’Free the Yarmouth two’ campaign, please feel free.
P.P.S. For all of you out there with my number, please only phone me if it is an absolute emergency. Even the Polish are starting get wind of my Britney Spears rues.

Elvis Lives!.......

Hello all, Norman here again. Where do I begin? Things have moved on rapidly since the last, and what I thought was going to be, final blog of Andy Mule. I have been contacted by the police, and it transpires that, that blithering idiot Mule faked his own death! Nobody is completely sure why he attempted to do it, it’s thought it had something to with him thinking he had upset the Catholic church in one of his blogs. He apparently became convinced that the Pope had put a price on his head, and that he was going to be taken out! This combined with his disillusionment at not becoming a top selling author, was enough to push him over the edge. So he concocted this ridiculous plan. Quite where he was going to go, I don’t know. The police told me that he was found wandering up and down Great Yarmouth beach, wearing just a loin cloth, that he had fashioned from sea weed. He was allegedly muttering to himself something about “misunderstood genius”, or some other such rubbish. I of course have been made to look a complete fool, having tearfully read out the eulogy at his ‘funeral’. How could this happen? I hear you ask, what about a body. Well, it seems that once Miss Marple learned of Andy’s disappearance, and suspected death, she didn’t wait for a body to be found, and went ahead and started to organise the funeral. She promised the local funeral director a large some of money, if he would ‘find’ a body to put in the coffin. The coroner was also in on the scam, having been promised a villa in Toremelinos, and they all would have got away with it, if Andy hadn’t turned up on Yarmouth beach. It’s a shame, because it was a lovely funeral, although I did find it a little inappropriate that Miss Marple was wearing a mini skirt and boob tube. I tried to tell her this at the grave side, but I think she was having a little difficulty hearing me, due to the din made by the fireworks display. Anyway, Miss Marple, the funeral director, and the coroner are all out on bail, having been questioned at length about attempting to defraud the insurance company.
But what of Andy? I don’t think it would be unreasonable of me to never have anything to do with that bastard ever again, but we go back along way, and I don’t like to see the poor old bugger in the predicament that he finds himself in. Once he had been picked up by the police, he was sectioned, and taken to the ‘Great Yarmouth home for the immeasurably bewildered‘. He is only allowed visitors once a week, and not allowed to make any phone calls. We are managing to communicate however, because Andy somehow smuggled in his mobile phone. The patients are searched on a regular basis, but he says he has secreted it about his person. I don’t want to think about this for too long really, but it seems to have worked so far. He tried having it set on vibrate at first, due to not wanting to alert the guards by it ringing, but gave up on this because the guards were becoming suspicious when he fidgeted violently, crossed his watering eyes, and yelped every time I rang him. He is now (dangerously in my opinion) using his old ring tone. Now when I call him, Britney Spear’s ‘Oops I did it again’ emanates form his anus. I have told him about that ring tone, but will he listen?…….anyway, he explains this away by telling the guards that he suffers from a rare genetic condition known as, ‘melodic flatulence’ I think he has only got away with it so far, because all the staff are Polish. Thank God for immigration eh? He did make a request to Miss Marple that she bake him a cake with a file inside. She baked a four foot square Victoria sponge with a Lever Arch file in it. Under the circumstances an understandable, but still cruel practical joke!
I have told him that he owes his disciples an explanation, it’s really the least he could do. He has assured me that as soon as he can get access to a computer, he will whack off a quick one. (Blog obviously) This could be sometime, as the only computer he can get his hands on is the one in the Matron’s office. He can only sneak in there late at night, and all the while he has to keep one eye out for the patrolling guards. So expect a posting soon. He wanted me to tell you that he is baring up under the strain of it all, and despite having a Nokia up his rectum, he is managing to walk tall.
Yours Norman.

Ignorance and bliss.......

Hello all, my name is Norman. I am Andy's friend. I am afraid I have some bad news. Andy Mule is dead, yes that's right, Mr Mule has passed on. He unfortunately died in a boating accident, the details of which are still sketchy. Shortly after his fortieth birthday, he was seen leaving the house, and towing a boat behind his car. He looked very dishevelled, and was heard muttering something about "Bloody Philistines".......nobody is quite sure what he was talking about, but he didn't appear in full control of his faculties. The next thing I know, i recieve a text from Andy, saying that he was off to find an island called sanctuary. A day or so later, I recieved another text, which said he had found the island, but just like the rest of life, it wasn't as good as he thought it was going to be. He then went on to say he was heading back. A day or so later, he texted me again to say a violent storm had capsised his boat, but he had managed to swim back to the island. That is the last I heard from him. A few days later we were contacted by the police and told that Andy had tried to build a craft to escape the island. Apparently he had fashioned it by binding together lumps of inspiration, and securing them with threads of hope. Unfortunately he was finally overcome, and drowned. His little raft of hope and inspiration was finally overwhelmed by the relentless, merciless, and unfortunately inevitable sea of mediocracy.
A few years ago, Andy once told me that if he should pass before me, he would just like two simple things to be read at his funeral. I granted him this wish, they are as follows. One was by Oscar Wilde, and the other by himself (Conceited to the last)!
Wilde......."We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars"
Andy......."Ignorance is bliss.......until one is surrounded by it!"
Well he always was a bit of a pretentious twat!
R.I.P. Andy Mule.

Post birthday blues.........

Oh God. It's 5.53 on Saturday morning, the 8th Sep 2007. Yes yesterday was the big birthday, and everything was rosie. Had a great day out with Miss Marple and ronnie and Reggie, and then a curry to follow in the evening. But for some reason, I am now feeling a bit low (ish). Not anywhere near being talked down from the top of a building low, just a bit yuk. I should imagine the hangover isn't helping, and the fact that it's 6.00am is adding to the woes. Perhaps the realisation of the 40 thing has finally hit home, I don't know, but I must try and snap out of it. Miss Marple bought me a ride in a racing car for my birthday present! It's in three weeks time. So i have now got 21 days to lose 2 stone! Apparently I'm not officially over weight for the car, but i don't want any embarrassing moments, like getting wedged in the car or anything! Going to go and wander about the house for a bit, and try and shake of the blues mobile that is hot on my tail. Ho hum......

Thought for the day. Why does bad always have to follow good?.....or is it that the bad is actually the prelude to the good?......those bloody chickens and eggs!

No sex please.......we're British.......

The British. We can be a prudish lot can’t we? I don’t really know why this is, but apparently it has got something to do with the Victorians. Them lot and their table legs eh?…….tut. This prudishness doesn’t seem to extend to our European neighbours, quite the opposite in fact. The Germans aren’t by any means bashful, and the Scandinavians even less so. The most sexually liberated among our European cousins, has to be the Swedes. I too am not easily embarrassed when it comes to talking all things sexual, I can only presume that way back when, I came from Scandinavian stock. Yes, when those old Nordics and the like were over here a rapin’ and a pillaging, my ancestors must have been conceived. There maybe some Viking in me you know. So as you have already no doubt gathered, today’s topic is all things sexual. Now calm down, I can already sense some fidgeting, and seat squirming going on. Just relax, take a deep breath, and come along with me on this journey. There really is nothing to be embarrassed about. Oh by the way, I will apologize in advance for any unintentional sexual puns or innuendos. I can’t be held responsible for you making up your own jokes!
So off we go. Where to start? Well, I think the easiest thing to do, is to list some categories, and write a little about each one. So where better a place to start than…….
PORNOGRAPHY
Pornography is of course watching other people take part in sexual acts, for one’s own sexual gratification. Pornography is by no means a new thing. Way back when the first cameras were invented, men wondered what they could take photographs of. Shall I take a picture of that beautiful rainbow? Or perhaps that stunning waterfall. No what about that incredible mountain. No, I’ll tell you what, I’ll see if I can get fanny to get her kit off, and take some snaps of that! Even as far back as caveman days, us blokes were portraying naked women on our cave walls. Drawn with the juice of a berry or something, young Ugg or whatever his name was, liked nothing better, than banging one off over his primitive sketch of miss Ugg down the road! Yes, as far back as the dawn of time, man has liked nothing more than a bit of porn. Today, the porn industry is a world wide, mutli-billion dollar business. Porn is churned out around the clock, and just about all tastes are catered for. The 'performers' in these films, who were once looked down upon, are now revered, and attend adult film conventions, where they spend their time signing autographs etc.
Now you may be thinking that someone like myself, who would claim to be such a sexual libertine, would whole heartedly embrace pornography, but you would be partly wrong. While I think that limited viewing is harmless, and can even spice up a sexual partnership for example, over doing it can be bad. Just like anything else, everything in moderation. You see, the main problem with pornography, is that it is one of the biggest purveyors of lies and myths, the world has ever seen, and too much viewing of this material can lead to a distorted view of sex. The first myth that needs to be blown wide open, is that lesbians throughout the world, all look like page three girls. This of course is not the case. My limited knowledge of real life lesas, is that there seems to be a lot of crew cuts, dungarees, and Carlsberg special brew drinking. It is of course, almost every straight mans dream, to be the spam in a lesbian sandwich. If you asked me if I wanted to be the spam between two porn lesbians that looked like page three girls, the answer would be YES YES YES. If you asked me if I wanted to be the meat between Glenda and Sharon, the local crew cutted, dungaree wearing carpet munchers down the road, the answer would be NO NO NO! The next lie that needs to be exposed, is that all women are rampant for sexual activity, at any second of the day or night. This is of course complete balderdash. Any man who is married, or with a long term partner, will tell you that there are so many variables that need to be in place for intercourse to take place. It’s a wonder we ever get to do it at all. "Oh come on, you must be in the mood". "Well yes I am, but unfortunately, Sagittarius isn’t in Virgo, and it’s only a crescent moon. Plus Eastenders is about to start, there is an ‘R’ in the month, and there is neither a following wind, nor a lunar eclipse. So I am sorry, better luck next time"! Watching too much pornography, can delude men into thinking that it is actually possible to walk into a shoe shop, engage the enormous breasted girl behind the counter in some suggestive word play, and be merrily taking her over the ‘all sizes reduced’ stand, within forty-seven seconds of entering the shop. This is of course complete nonsense, as his worship kindly pointed out to me!
Moving on to my next expose, I suppose the classic myth is that all men have an appendage the size of Blackpool tower. Now come on, your average man has an average size penis. Just like he has average length arms, average length legs. An average size nose, ears etc. etc. It therefore goes without saying, that the trouser department will be average to. Again, viewing too many skin flicks can cause Mr Average to start to doubt the size of his manhood. He may start to feel like an outcast, inadequate, and if he is a particularly isolated individual who doesn’t partake in sports, and therefore is unable to view other men naked, or manage a ‘sneeky peak’ in the public toilets, he cannot compare himself to all his fellow Mr Averages, He may start to fixate on the delusion that he was under provided for by the good Lord. The irony of all this is of course, that he is in fact quite normal; it is actually ‘Randy jackhammer’ with his monstrous member who is in fact the freak. Also, you will never see ‘Jerome Slamdunker’ having trouble rising to the occasion, and uttering the words sheepishly to his lady friend, "Sorry about this love, I think I may have had one too many pints of ‘Old Growler’, give us a minute". No, this is because the porn industry employs young ladies as ‘fluffers’. A fluffer, for those who don’t know, are women employed to stimulate the male ‘actors', usually orally, and off camera, so when they are required for a scene, they are raring to go. The absolute tragedy of the porn industry is the rise of ‘Viagra’. This has had the effect of making ‘fluffers’ redundant. Apparently legions of them can be seen milling around outside job centres, lamenting over the ‘good old days’. It must be a strange day in the job centre when they turn up.
Job centre employee "So, what sort of work are you looking for"?
Fluffer "Have you got anything in fluffing"?
Job centre employee "Ooh sorry love, we have very few fluffing vacancies these days. It’s the Viagra you know"
Fluffer "You must have something for me"?
Job centre employee "Tell you what we have got, loads of opportunities in the massage parlor industry"
Fluffer "Massage parlors, how dare you madam, I am an artiste"!
I don’t want to dwell on pornography for too long (not like the bad old days, before Dr Shubert took me to his clinic)! but there is one more myth that pornographers would have you believe, and that is that your average lady/wife/girlfriend etc. likes nothing better than to kneel before a man, and have him (how can I put this delicately – I am trying, honest)…….er, make a deposit onto her. Oh dear, yes I can sense the seat squirming has become more rigorous. Stick with it. (The puns are mounting up aren’t they). Yes pornographic films would have us believe, the Miss Marples of the world are absolutely dying for us to come forth over them. Well back in reality, this isn’t really the case is it? And who can blame them. No, your average girl is not kneeling before her man like a wanton nymphomaniac, practically begging him to explode over her. ‘Lorna Likeithard’ may well be in ‘Rough Riders 18’, BUT IT'S NOT REAL IS IT? But don’t loose heart chaps. This scenario can be achieved. You will have to be gentle with your lady. A lot of tenderness, encouragement, persuasion, and …….oh alright, lets be honest…….payment is required. The problem is, that if agreement is reached, it is done so with certain provisos. Lets be frank, the eroticism of the moment is lost somewhat, when one looks down at one’s lady wearing a shower cap, rain coat, marigolds, and safety goggles!. Top this off with a face that looks like she has just sucked on a lemon, and it is a recipe for disaster. You see, God has screwed up again. When he started this creating the universe thing, he went at it like a bull at a gate. He should have taken five minutes, and thought about stuff a bit more. Let’s take this problem I have just mentioned for example. He made a man’s 'produce' all gooey and sticky, and well.....you get the idea. When if he had stepped back for a minute and thought about it, he would have made it a dry powder. This would have been a great help in the ‘facial’ situation, as I can’t imagine any reasonable woman objecting to a light dusting. Then of course, for the female facial aficionado, who prefers the real McCoy…….simply add tepid water, and hey presto! Right that’s enough on porn, lets move on…….
PERVERSIONS
Now, I am by no means any kind of authority on the Bible, but I think I am correct in saying, that our good Lord considers any kind of sexual activity that isn’t based on the female becoming, or potentially becoming pregnant, to be a perversion. Well this just about dictates that the vast majority of human sexual activity is perverted! (Though probably not as perverted as this piece of ridiculous dogma). OOPS, that’s the Catholics after me. Is there such a thing as a Catholic Fatwa? So lets touch on a few "perversions", and see how things go.
Anal sex
Yes, bottom love is outlawed in religious circles. This practice can take two forms really, homosexual, and heterosexual. Up until a few decades ago, men partaking in a session of bottom fun could be imprisoned, or shot, or something. I think it is now perfectly legal. This is ironic to a certain degree, because I think it is still technically illegal to have anal sex with your wife! though I don’t really know how the police could possibly enforce this. Perhaps one day we will have A.R.S.E. squads. (Anti Rectal Sexual Encounters). I can just imagine it now, Gerald and Deidre are in bed, when Gerald turns to Deidre and says……."Am I correct in saying that you seem to be in the mood for a little backdoor action you little minx"? "Oh yes Gerald, you know me too well"
Just as Gerald and Deidre are ‘docking’, they hear a muffled "GO GO GO" From the landing. The bedroom door is blown off it’s hinges, and two men dressed head to toe in black, burst in and point sub machine guns at poor Gerald and Deidre. Meanwhile, two more A.R.S.E. members’ abseil from the roof, breach the window, throw in a stun grenade, and land on Deidre’s just hoovered carpet, in a shower of glass. This is followed immediately by Det. Insp. Rimmer marching into the bedroom," holding his warrant card aloft and shouting, "Alright, alright, that’s enough of that…….you’re fucking nicked"!
Necrophilia
Phew, this is a strange one. Don’t want to delve too deeply into this area, an area I thankfully know virtually nothing about. Basically a desire to have sexual intercourse with dead bodies. (I’m squirming now). I have read of cases where necrophiles (99% men), will ask their partner to play dead as it were, while they carry on. I can’t really see why anyone would agree to this. I have often wondered how this subject is initially broached, how does a bloke tell his wife he wants to shag dead people? Perhaps while innocently asking her husband one day about his sexual fantasies, she stumbles upon the awful truth. There she was expecting him to mention threesomes, girl on girl etc etc, when all of a sudden he pipes up. Well darling as your asking, I really really fancy doing dead girls". A bigger passion killer, there cannot be.
Fetishism
A quote from the dictionary……."Fetishism, a condition in which the handling of an inanimate object, or a part of the body other than the sexual organs, is a source of sexual satisfaction". Or to put it another way, being turned on by carriage clocks or elbows! Yes this is a weird one. I think being aroused by a time piece or a limb joint is taking things a little too far, but many couples like to indulge in a little bit of innocent dressing up. A Lara Croft outfit is still moth balled, due to Miss Marples reluctance to wear it. On the other hand, I am in two minds about the traffic Warden costume she has lined up for me…….moving on.
Sadomasochism
To hit, or be hit. That is the question. Yes, these fellas like to whack each other. The whackers (sadists – ie. Sado), and the whackees (masochists), are interchangeable. This is the beauty of this particular form of sexual perversion. Both parties can give and receive, so everyone’s a winner. Various implements can be used, from a cat-o-nine tails, to a twelve inch ruler. Also, there are the ‘do it yourselfers’ those people who like to inflict pain upon themselves! I did see a documentary once, where a bloke wearing a leather mask was, well how can I put this?.......lets just say it involved a toilet roll holder, lined with sandpaper!
Enough of perversions, I am starting to feel queasy. Let’s go for the big one. The one where the most violent seat squirming is likely to take place. Yes you have guessed it…….MASTURBATION.
MASTURBATION
This seems to be the topic that most of all, out of all the various categories of sex, appears to cause the most blushing, and awkwardness.
Now the main problem with masturbation, is not that it makes you go blind, or you have to start shaving the palms of your hands, it’s that there is an enormous amount of inequality about the whole thing. Male masturbation and female masturbation, are treated totally differently.
If a man were to ‘come out’ if you like, and admit to masturbating, He would probably be dragged from his house, and tied to a tree, stoned to within an inch of his life, while people sniggered, and shouted abuse such as, "What, can’t you get a proper girlfriend you saddo"? He would be a pariah, an outcast, a social leper, destined to be ridiculed forever more by the baying crowd. If a woman on the other hand admitted to masturbating, she would be revered. She would probably be held aloft on the shoulders of her fellow ‘sisters’. Paraded through the streets, a heroin, a modern forward thinking woman who, is proud of her sexuality. An icon, an example of a woman who is ‘in touch’ with her sensuality. Bloody double standards or what? Women’s masturbation is even discussed on daytime television. Female masturbatory aids are paraded on ‘This morning’ with a panel of women who have test driven them, and who are now giving them bloody marks out of ten! This is all done with not a flinch of embarrassment, and is all perfectly acceptable. I can’t imagine in a hundred years, that Fern Britton, and Philip Schofield will ever be displaying a selection of Jazz mags on their program, and asking a panel of men to rate them.
Fern "So Colin, what did you think of ‘Open and Willing’?
Colin "Well fern, it were alright, I had a look right through the mag, before finally deciding to blow my load over ‘Suzy’ on page 87.
Fern "Thanks for that Colin, now Gavin over to you. Now you were given a selection of mags, which one was your favorite"?
Gavin "I had browse through them all, and although I was very fond of ‘Fen wives on heat’, and ‘Shaved and dangerous’, my particular favorites were ‘Under the burka’ (shit, that’s the Muslims after me now as well)! And ‘Nun too proud’. I personally decided to finish off over a saucy little nun called Amanda on page 12"
Phillip "Oh right, lets have a look at Amanda, oh I see, this is the actual copy we sent you isn’t it? Well we will have to give that a miss then. Right thanks for that boys, now join us after the break, when you will have the chance to win all these mags, and an all expenses paid trip to Spec savers. Don’t go away"…….
IT’S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN IS IT?
Just a quick one before we leave masturbation for good. Why is it, that if one man lends another man a pornographic film, The next day at work, they both only admit to having watched the film. Oh so you just watched it then did you? yeah, just like i rented that Ferrari for the weekend, but only sat in it!
This imbalance needs to be addressed as soon as possible in the House of Commons.
Before I go, just a few do’s and don’ts in the sexual world.
Do, after chopping up chillies, always wash your hands before entering into any form of heavy petting. If your lady cries out, "wow, that’s hot", don’t take this to be an opinion on your prowess as a lover, it will mean, "That is actually bloody hot you twat"!
Don’t let personal criticism upset you whilst making love. Keep going at all costs, and ignore the laughing.
I was once having intercourse with a young lady, and at the critical moment, I - in the heat of passion you understand- happened to mention that "I was 'arriving'". Without flinching, and through a mouth full of Wrigleys spearmint she casually said, "What do you want me to do about it, inform the News of the World"? As you can probably guess, it took many many years of therapy to address this mental scar. For years after, on occasion when reaching the point of no return, something would claw it’s way up from deep within my psychie, and I would involuntarily shout "Read all about it…….Read all about it"!
Well I think I’d better call it a day there. You see, it wasn’t that bad was it? You made it through the rain as Barry Manilow would say, and out the other side. Virtually unscathed I should imagine. So tomorrow is the big day. 40 years old. I suppose I’ll be too old for all this rumpy pumpy stuff then, better stick to the Train set….cough, cough…….er model railway!......
Adios Amigos, and happy bloody birthday to me!

B. G. The devil incarnate . . . . . . .

This was not intended to be my next blog. The next blog was in fact in full swing. I was typing away like a goodun, two or three pages in, and probably my best work to date.……lets not beat about the bush. It was fucking hilarious!!! When all of a sudden bang, it’s gone! “An error has occurred. Would you like to send a report to Microsoft” - send or don’t send. You know the shit. Then gone…..completely gone. One and a half fucking hours down the tube.
I would like to state right here, right now, that Bill -wank stain- Gates, in my opinion, is the biggest cu!t on the face of this earth! The Microsoft windows operating system, is the biggest pile of steaming shit that man ever devised. This arsehole has been flooding and monopolising the market for thirty odd bloody years, and it’s about time someone punched him squarely in the face! A blow for all the poor bastards like me, who has had……(hang on, better save it)!…..This dreadful pile of turd ridden bollocks fuck up their day. It’s about time we started a pressure group to stamp out the jumper wearing, side hair parting, four eyed (I wear glasses, but I’ll let it go this time), nerdy, whiney voiced tosser. How has he got away with it? Thirty something years of churning out something that quite simply, only works when it fucking feels like it! If you have had the misfortune to have to reformat your hard drive when the bloody computer has died beyond resuscitation, you, like me, would have watched the images of people smiling, wowing, and oohing as they use Microsoft windows. These images are shown as the bloody thing installs. Surely this breaks the rules of some trades description act or something doesn’t it? They should actually be showing people tearing their hair out in lumps, as it crashes yet again. People sobbing as yet another document is lost, never to be found again. A middle aged man looking bewildered as an application that he was using yesterday, and which was working perfectly, today gives him the two fingers. People jumping off tall buildings shouting “Fuck you Gates” as they plummet to their deaths, because they have seen the ‘BLUE SCREEN OF DEATH’ one too many times. Desperados trying to find solace in the bottom of a bottle of whiskey, because the screen has locked up. Someone phoning the Samaritans, because Bill’s wonder product, can’t do the simplest cocking thing. What genuinely worries me, is that a great deal of the worlds computers run on this shit. Big important stuff. The nuclear weapons of the world are probably controlled by it. Dear God almighty…..we are doomed.
“Those damn Ruskies have stepped over the mark once to often. Lets nuke ‘em”
Microsoft windows has encountered an error. Would you like to file a report…..send or don’t send
“Aaaaaarrrgghhhhhhhhhh”
Right that’s it. The next computer I buy, will be an ‘apple mac’. I will pile all the Microsoft one’s up in the back garden, dowse them in petrol, and set light to it, while dancing around it naked, covered in Cherokee war paint, and wailing like a banshee! If I can be arsed, I will make an effigy of Bill, and stab it with the sharp bits of a graphics card!
Phew, do I feel any better for that. Not really, but it had to be said. I’m drained, spent, I have nothing left. The new blog will just have to wait. I’m off to play on my xbox 360.……FUCK THAT’S ONE OF BILL’S DEVIL MACHINES AS WELL!…………..

To pee, or not to pee.......

Hello Mule fans, (Bless all three of you), Sorry for the tardiness of putting fingers to keyboard, but there seems to have been a lot of shit going down on the domestic front! Very poorly cats, trips to the vets every night, never enough hours in the day, trips to ‘dfs’ - a truly mind numbing experience. They could at least let you enter the building before they pounce on you - to replace sofas that Jack Russells have completely destroyed. They have been Re-Christened the Kray twins, and will hence forth be known as Ronnie and Reggie! Anyway, I am back, and back with a vengeance, and what better way to kick of the comeback tour, than to start with urination!
As I have reached this age (only a couple of weeks to go till D-Day)! I have noticed that I have started to urinate on a much more regular basis. This was part of the reason, for my embarrassing trip for a diabetes check. (Please see earlier blog). Of course the other medical reason for this, could be an enlarged prostate, but I am trying to put off this particular visit to the docs, until it’s absolutely necessary! I have always thought what a peculiar job doctors have. He could be inserting his finger into my rectum one minute, and then chatting over the aperitifs at a dinner party with me the next! Just as my Grandmother before me, any trip out now has to be preceded by lengthy investigations into the public conveniences of the final destination. I am thinking of just buying some incontinence pants, and being done with it. It can flow freely then, and the only problem will be huge pants full of urine, wafting about and throwing me off balance. Until that day, I will just have to have an intimate knowledge of the local facilities.
So, there was Miss Marple and myself down the town the other Saturday, when I announced that I needed to spend a penny. Off I trot into the toilets, while Miss Marple waited dutifully outside. Miss Marple has spent so much time hanging around outside male lavatories, that I am surprised that she hasn’t been asked how much she charges for hand relief! I came out, (not in a George Michael kind of way), and off Miss Marple and me headed.
“Anybody else in there”? Miss Marple asked.
I said there was one bloke.
“Do blokes chat about anything when they are in the toilets”? she innocently asked.
After Miss Marple had hurriedly come back from ‘Boots’ with some smelling salts and revived me, I informed her that “NO, we definitely did not chat about anything.
She looked at me quizzically and asked, “Why not”?
After another much stronger administration of smelling salts, I sat up woozily and said, “I think it’s about time you and me had a little chat”.
I took Miss Marple by the arm, and marched her off to a local café for a cup of tea, and a little chat, about the finer points of male public convenience etiquette!
I ordered a pot of tea for two, and sat her down, much like a Father would sit down his son for a little chat about the birds and the bees. Only with Miss Marple being my wife, this was obviously a great deal more patronising! I started by telling her that men, under no circumstances, talk about anything in a public toilet. Even if you were having a heart attack, not a word would pass your lips. Miss Marple asked why, and told me that women quite often chat in the toilets. “Because“, I told her, “If a man talks to another man in a public convenience, it is automatically assumed, that he is a lifter“. “That’s ridiculous” she told me. “Yes I said”, “You know that, and I know that, but that is just the way it is”. Now, I think I have mentioned before, that I have absolutely no problem with homosexuality what so ever. It matters not one little bit, if consenting male adults wish partake in sessions of ‘Bottom Love’, it’s just that I don’t really want to be presumed Gay, just because I said good morning to a bloke in a toilet! It’s a strange phenomena, You could be the most un-aggressive, easy going, non blokey bloke alive, but as soon as you step into a public toilet, all the testosterone rushes to the surface. It’s as if we have to assert our masculinity, in order to repel any unwanted advances from a homosexual, just chancing his arm! It’s pretty ludicrous really, but we just can’t seem to help ourselves. I have witnessed many an amusing display of ‘Pea-cocking’ as I call it. (This could suggest, that I have spent an unhealthy amount of time, hanging around public toilets, for the purpose of research…..I haven’t)! A lot of men seem to stand with their legs apart while at the urinal, and it seems that the further apart the legs are, the more masculine they wish to be portrayed. I have seen men with their legs so far apart, that it makes their groin area so low, they have to use the special low down kids one’s! Coughing, that’s something else that seems to happen quite a lot. I have no idea what the idea behind this is, but I am sure there is some primeval reason. Cigarette butt racing. This can only be played with very good friends, who know each other well, and won’t ‘lose it’ over a little case of ‘splash back’. Talking of which, this can be a serious problem. Women are extremely fortunate, in the fact that they sit down, and therefore splash back is not an issue. Men on the other hand can have huge issues. An unwanted moment of splash back when wearing light coloured trousers, can be disastrous in social circles. Then there is the double jet. I really don’t know how this happens, but sometimes instead of the easily controllable single jet, a double one can occur! A mild panic can then ensue, while the man wrestles with his penis, and tries to consolidate the double jet, into one easily manageable one. (I am sure Carol Voordaman would have something to say on the subject).
The absolute no no when in a public lavatory, the ultimate cardinal sin, to top all others is of course the……..’Sneaky peek’! Yes, I know it’s tempting, nine times out of ten there are no homosexual overtones involved, but it is hard not to take a ‘Sneaky peek’ at the appendage of the bloke next you! We are all curious, we spend a great deal of time worrying about the size of our penis. “Oh God, I bet mine is smaller than everybody else’s, I bet it’s a funny shape”, etc etc. So there you are, your standing next to a man with his penis in full view, this is your chance to put your mind at rest, lay to bed all those fears that you have had for so long. “Go on“, you think to yourself, “Just a little look, he won’t notice“. If you are caught, it’s the worst thing in the world. If ever you wanted the ground to open up and swallow you, this was that moment. There is nothing you can say to appease the situation is there? Absolutely nothing you can say, that would explain your actions. “Sorry about that mate, just seeing how big your cock is”, or, “Ah, I see yours doesn’t bend to the left like mine”. It just really doesn’t cut it, does it? Of course the obvious result of this, is that you are beaten up outside afterwards, while a gang of youths shout homophobic abuse at you. Either that, or worse, the guy who has caught you peeking, winks, slips a piece of paper with his phone number on into your back pocket, and gently taps you on the arse as your still urinating!
Miss Marple was genuinely amazed at the complexities of the male public convenience, and now has a new found respect for the difficulties involved with male public urination. We left the café, and headed for the car. “Better just go dear before we leave”, I said……….Now what was the catalogue number for those rather fetching incontinence pants?……………..

Hoorah for Benji!.......

I FEEL CRAP!…….Dear God, what is this infirmity that hath beset me? It started Sunday morning. Woke up with a bit of a sore throat, and a general feeling of dodgy ness. As the day went on, the sore throat escalated, and a cough developed. A pounding head then started, and my body felt like I had done a few rounds with ’Giant Haystacks’. This is my third day off work now, and I have only just managed to drag myself off the sofa. It all started Monday. Miss Marple went off to work, leaving me in a semi comatose state on the settee. At about 8.45am, I dragged myself up, and decided to make myself some toast, and watch the chavs on ’The Jeremy Kyle show’. If ever there was a more irritating man than Jeremy Kyle, I have yet to come across him. What really gets on my wick with all these type of people, they know who they are, Kyle, Lake, Goddard, Winfrey, is that they are so bloody self righteous. They have always had a greater problem than those of the unfortunates on their shows, and have always come through it, and “out the other side”. It was one hell of a “Journey”, but “Just look at me now”. “My husband wouldn’t treat me this way”, or “My kids are so well balanced, because I am an excellent parent”. What exactly is it that qualifies these bloody people, to go sticking their noses into other people’s misery anyway? So anyway, there I was, kettle boiling, toast toasting, head thumping, when all of a sudden, everything stops. Silence ensued, and I just stood there in a state of bewilderment. No power, what had happened? I checked the fuse box, all ok there, and then it suddenly dawned on me. I remember a few weeks ago getting a note through the door saying, “Your electricity supply will be switched off, so that maintenance work can be carried out, on August 13th, from approximately 9.00am to 4pm. Shit, not today I thought. The bastards could have let me finish the toast first, look; they are seven minutes early as well. It suddenly occurred to me, that luke warm tea and anaemic toast were going to be the least of my problems. How the hell was I going to cope without my beloved electricity for SEVEN WHOLE HOURS! Don’t panic I thought, you will be ok. You feel like crap, get some sleep, sleep is always good for illness. I laid on the sofa, turned this way, I turned that way. I counted sheep; I tried to think of something really boring to help me nod off, a conversation with ‘Jade Goody’ maybe. It was no good, it wasn’t working. It didn’t help that I had two Jack Russells bouncing around and top of me, and wheel spinning on my head, every time they heard the slightest noise. Or throwing themselves at the backdoor, every time an ant had the audacity to tip toe across the garden! It was no good, I couldn’t sleep. Not only could I not sleep, but I was hungry. I know I thought, beans - electric hob……bugger. Biscuits - tin was empty. It was at this point, that the full horror of the situation occurred to me. There was nothing else for it, desperate times call for desperate measures, when the going gets tough, the tough gets going. The Dunkirk spirit rose to the surface…….I WAS GOING TO HAVE TO EAT SOME FRUIT! I closed my eyes, and plunged my hand into the fruit bowl. I pulled out an apple, looked a bit wrinkly, no I couldn’t do it. I’m not totally sure what the next thing was, that I pulled out, but I took a deep breath, and took a bite. Now, is it only me that finds the taste of fruit bloody horrible? Or is there someone else out there, that can’t see what all the fuss is about. It doesn’t matter what type of fruit I sink my teeth into, the result is always the same. My cheeks suck in, and my eyes squint, as if I have just sat on a bicycle with no saddle! I don’t know what God/Mother Nature (Please delete as appropriate), was thinking about, when he/she/it designed this stuff. Why didn’t he/she/it make the earth’s natural foods, taste like ’Cornish Pasties’? Ho hum, what to do now? Try and get some sleep…..damn, not working. There then ensued a period of pacing about, interspersed with tablet taking. I’m not sure Benjamin Franklin (among others), knew the impact he was going to have, when he invented this electricity stuff. There is now a world full of electricity addicts, who find it almost impossible to survive without the stuff. Benjamin Franklin, it could be said, is my posthumous dealer! It was now only about 10.30am. I couldn’t believe time could pass this slowly. I tried day dreaming. It’s peculiar, I can’t do it when I’m just sitting there, I have to be driving, or speaking to Justin from human resources! By this time, the inevitable was starting to creep up on me. I had exhausted all possibilities except one, I was going to have to READ A BOOK! I pulled one from my bookshelf, and dusted it off. I opened the cover and it creaked, as it saw the light of day for the first time for many a year. It was a book portraying the exploits of the SAS. I read a few pages, and felt my eyes starting to get heavy. By this time the dogs had finally calmed down, and the three of us slipped into a gentle slumber. The rest of the day, was spent wandering about, and sleeping. When Miss Marple finally came home, she swears she found me in the airing cupboard, in the foetal position, clutching my Playstation under one arm, the laptop under the other, dribbling slightly, rocking backwards and forwards, sobbing, and muttering…..”My babies are dead…my babies are dead”! I’m not sure how true this is, I don’t remember it, but this could be because I was out of it on a cocktail of Lemsip, and electricity withdrawal! Anyway, still feeling a bit crap, and ‘Cash in the attic is nearly on’! So bye for now, I love you Benji!

Yes sir, I can boogie.......

The joint hung from the corner of my mouth, as the sweet smelling smoke danced towards the clouds. A bead of sweat found its natural path down over my temple, as the cool night air of the Californian breeze teased the long tresses of my sweat laden hair. I looked out into the darkness, the atmosphere was charged. I couldn’t see them, but I knew that they were there. Thousands of them, maybe more. I could sense them, I could almost smell them. Apart from the slight breeze, the only sound was a low hum emanating from behind me. I slowly slid my fingers down the strings, and the amplifier sighed. A slight ripple now among the throng that waited with baited breath. Hushed voices whispered to each other, the excitement had definitely taken an upward turn. My left hand shaped an E chord, and my right hovered over the strings like a buzzard circling its prey. It crashed down onto the strings, and the amplifier behind me spat forth music, sex, love and peace all in one burst, which caressed every single member of the baying audience. As the lights went up, I could see the crowd memorised, as my fingers danced over the strings, and the amplifier translated my message to a waiting crowd.
“Do you want fries with that?”
Tracy’s monotone voice slapped me hard across the ears, as she asked me the question, through a mouth full of gum.
I had been standing in line for so long at my local fast food! Emporium, that I had drifted back to 1967. I was playing my guitar in the Californian desert during the summer of love, and was surely on for some rock chick loving after the gig, when bloody Tracy had to go and spoil it all!
“Yes why not, presuming it won’t take another half an hour”. I think my sarcasm had bypassed Tracy. . . . . . Never mind.
I have to admit that I was comfort eating after Miss Marple had given me the news that morning, that she had obtained two tickets for her works annual summer ball. I say comfort eating; comfort is just about the last thing one experiences at their local branch of McWhopperChickenDoughnut, or whatever. I hate virtually everything about these places, and annoy the arse of myself, that I still frequent them. But, you know what it’s like. (Heavy sigh)!
Yes it was that time again folks, can it really be a year ago that I brushed off the ever tightening tuxedo, and made my way to a large tent full of people I didn’t know. I do so hate being a miserable bastard sometimes, and wish for Miss Marple’s sake, that I was normal. But alas I’m an oddball! I have never really understood the concept of parties. For me, I like things that are familiar, and comfortable. The idea of going somewhere where I hardly know a soul, and have to dress in something that feels like it is strangling me, just seems positively daft. I am not a great one for small talk, and find it very difficult to talk to Justin form ‘Human resources’ about his ‘staffing levels’. No offence Justin…….BUT I DON’T REALLY GIVE A SHIT! I really wish I had the courage to just make stuff up, when someone asks me “and what you do, I’d just say something like…..”I am a pirate” when they look quizzically at me, I would say “Yes, I am the modern day equivalent of Black Beard. I mainly work in the English Channel, but sometimes venture up as far as the North Sea. You know Justin, we too have staffing problems, oh yes, cabin boys are extremely hard to come by these days”. But alas I don’t. I dutifully go along with it, smile, nod and surreptitiously look at my watch.
The absolute worst thing about ‘A night out’ is the dancing. I have a huge problem with dancing of any kind. Now I wouldn’t consider myself to be someone who is easily embarrassed, and certainly have no objection to making an arse of myself, but dancing is the one exception. The basic premise of dancing is great. Let yourself go, feel free, express yourself, lose yourself in the music etc, but in reality this just can’t happen. When on the odd occasion you come across someone who really does cut footloose, everybody looks at the poor sod, like he has just escaped from the ‘special house’. So I, along with everyone else, do that awkward shuffling from side to side thing. Your face is smiling, but the eyes are certainly letting you down! They are not lying; people can see the fear in them. Then of course one of those records comes on, that there is apparently a specific dance to. There are only four moves for the duration of the whole song, but can I get in sync?.........can I bugger. I’m up when everybody else is down, and I’m thrusting when everybody is spinning, and then to really plunge the dagger of embarrassment through my heart, the bastards form a circle around me, as if to really highlight my ineptitude. My loathing of dance doesn't stop at my lowly level of awkward shuffling about. I despise it right to the very top. Ballet, what a complete load of poncy nonsense. It was best summed up by 'Inspector Grim' from the 'Thin blue line', when he said, "Ballet, just a load of posh birds flashing their gussets, at a bunch of horny old men". I couldn't agree more. The next time there is a dance troop on TV, turn the sound down and have a look at just how bloody ridiculous they look. But the worst, the very worst kind of dancing has to be any form of ballroom dancing, specifically anything of a Latin nature. Now I wouldn’t consider myself to be in any way shape or form homophobic, I really am not bothered how many ‘strolls up the bournville boulevard’ a man of such persuasions wishes to take, but unfeasibly thin men in very tight trousers, mincing around a dance floor, wearing a frilly shirt, and a perma tan, is just frankly, bloody gay! It’s hilarious, and frightening all at the same time.
Of course it isn't only the up tempo songs, that need to be danced to. Oh no, it's time for the slow dance. Poor Carol from marketing, has to put up with dirty old Derek from accounts groping her arse, for the entire duration of 'Careless whisper'. I spend the whole song treading on Miss Marple's toes. The reason for my clumsiness, is not entirely due to my hatred of dancing, but the words of the songs very often put me off. Why the hell can't song writers use language, that ordinary people use ordinarily, in everyday ordinary life? When has any bloke, who knows better, ever called his wife or girlfriend 'Girl'? So often you will hear "Hey girl" or such the like. Have you ever walked into a pub, and said to the bar staff......"Hi, I’ll have a lager, and.......hey GIRL, what do you want to drink?". I fear it would be a very short date. There is a line in a famous smootcher, who's title escapes me at the moment, which goes...."Girl, I've been watching you, from so far across the floor now baby". Just try that one in reality. I can just see it. Wayne from Sheffield stomps across the dance floor, to where a gaggle of young females are standing. He singles one out, and says to her, "GIRL, I've been watching thee, right from ‘cross floor”. Instead of getting the slow dance of his life, he would probably end up on his arse on the pavement, while the girls all discard their drinks, for fear of a Rohipnal incident!
So anyway, off to push this burger down my throat. I wonder if I ate enough of them, I would be too large for my tuxedo?, and thus escape the summer ball. Worth a try……….Tracy, five more McWhopperdogs over here please, and yes, super size me!…………

4015 Days, and not an hour too long...

Today it is me and Miss Marple’s wedding anniversary. In all honesty the dear gal deserves a long service medal. Maybe even the Victoria Cross for gallantry in the face of extreme adversity. Yes folks, for all Mule fans (he knows who he is), who are regular readers of this piffle, the conclusion must have been reached that, I can be an absolute pain in the arse! It’s not all bad, but the ranting has increased as I tumble downhill uncontrollably towards forty. Incidentally, that pleasure is now only T-minus one month and a day away, and counting! That reminds me; I must get on and organize my black arm band. I do feel rather guilty that I am not whisking Miss Marple off. . . . . . . to Paris or somewhere I mean. Funds won’t allow that sort of extravagance at the moment, so a Mule cooked meal for two, is the order of the day. There is only one problem with this that I can foresee. Over the weekend, I sustained an injury to my finger, whist out in the garden. As bad luck would have it, my tetanus injection has just run out. After telling a colleague about this, he very kindly emailed me ‘All there is to know about tetanus’. Needless to say, I am now absolutely convinced that I have got it! This could put a slight dampener on the evening. Apparently, some of the symptoms of tetanus are, muscle spasms, and the locking of the jaw muscle. This is obviously not going to be good, when trying to promote a romantic vibe. Ideally, I would be engaging her in witty repartee, whilst sipping on a fine beaujolais. Instead, I can see me twitching about like Jack Douglas form the ‘Carry on’ films, flinging wine all over her, while trying to speak without the luxury of a fully functioning jaw. Could be an early night, and I mean, just an early night!
I am knocking this up during a slack period at work, and I took the opportunity to phone my local surgery, to ask for some advice on what I should do. Please may I refer you to my earlier blog dated the 31/7/07, as an example of how the call went. These women, and they usually are women, are beyond belief. She was actually telling me off, because I hadn’t been to the doctors for so long! Surely that is a good thing for them, isn’t it? Less work for them, I am not clogging up the waiting room etc. When I no doubt have to go to be stabbed by some overworked, stroppy nurse, I am fully expecting to be taken in to a side room, and given lines. "I will visit the doctors on more regular basis. I will visit the doctors on a more regular basis". That’s another thing, when a member of the medical fraternity is about to give you an injection, why the hell do they ask, "Are you ok with needles?" What on earth do they expect people to say? "Oh yes, absolutely fine. In fact I can’t get enough of them. Tell you what doc, you stab me with that thing as many times as you like…..Have you got a bigger one?, Go on thrust that bugger right into my triceps……I LOVE IT". Having said that, no doubt there are some individuals who like nothing more than being injected, and I am sure there are niche websites out there, that cater for their needs. www.introvenousagogo.com maybe. (Ok hands up who just googled that!) Anyway, I have gone off on a tangent.
Back to the matter in hand, me and Miss Marple’s anniversary. As I said, whisking her off to go shopping in New York was financially out of the question, so off to the local Tesco’s Extra it was then! Yes off we went ‘Clothes shopping’. Now I do my best, I try to say the right things at the right time, offer encouragement and a helping hand where I can, but clothes shopping to most men, is something that just does not compute. If I need new clothes, and I mean need new clothes, because the crotch has disappeared in my jeans or something, it is like a military operation. We are in, chosen, tried on, and out within a matter of minutes. Not only am I not bothered what ‘Style’ they are, I’m rarely bothered these days if they fit properly or not! JUST GET ME OUT OF THERE. Going shopping for clothes these days, is more akin to going to a discothèque. Pumping music bombards you from every direction, flashing lights dazzle you, and all the staff have to be seen to be wearing the latest ‘thing’, to show they are hip enough to advise you on what you should be wearing this summer. There he is, his little name badge says ‘Darren’, and on his back it says "Here to help". He has got the obligatory baggy jeans on, that hang just off his arse, and piercings hanging from every piece of available skin. His hair, oh his hair is a thing to behold. The left half is peroxide blonde, and is sticking bolt upright, while the right side is jet black, and draped over one eye, and to top it off, he looks fashionably sullen. On the other hand, clothes shopping for a woman, is a completely different matter. It’s something to be savored, to take your time over. To browse, to try on, to handle, to discuss. This is where the problem starts for most men. Wandering round, shop after shop after shop. "What do you think to this?", or "which do you prefer?" Now, I think the female clothes shops are missing a trick here. Why don’t they make a sort of adult male crèche? The lady could drop the bloke off on the way into the shop, and pick him up on the way out. A room with a full size snooker table, and arcade machines. Dartboard, table football, and maybe even a few pole dancers. Stick a bar in one corner, and they couldn’t lose. Everyone’s a winner. The lady can spend hour after hour perusing, and trying on, and the blokes can drink beer, and pot a few balls. But no, unfortunately things aren’t this way. Instead, you can see them everywhere. Men following women around a shop, like something from a George Romero film. The undead shuffling perpetually round and round. Sunken eyes stare into space, and the look of the tormented undead contorts every muscle in the victims face, into a look of desperation. I had slipped into such a dazed state, that at one point I was following the wrong woman around the shop! Just when you think your state of limbo can’t be worsened, you hear those words. Those words that tear into pieces the last scraps of hope that you have left………."Just wait here, while I try these on". "Dear God deliver me from this, I’ll do anything. I promise I’ll never look at intravenousagogo again", I think to myself. Miss Marple descends into the changing rooms, with arms full of clothes. Two assistants are following close behind with trolleys stacked ten feet high. This is where the main problem of ‘shopping with women’ arises. While Miss marple is adorning herself, what the bloody hell am I supposed to do? Do they provide seating, a selection of magazines, and newspapers, to help pass the time?......NO. I have to hang around trying to not look like a perv! And of course the changing rooms are always right next to the underwear section. They know what they’re doing. They must piss themselves when they are designing the interiors of these shops. Sometimes I actually pretend to be sending a text, just so I don’t have to look up, and catch the eye of an assistant who thinks I am perving over the thong section. It’s about this time that something happens, that is guaranteed to happen every time. Out of the corner of my eye, I will see a bloke casually browsing around the shop. He is not one of the undead like me, no, he is actually shopping. Now he is either, a ‘modern’ man, who can quite comfortably buy clothes for his wife or girlfriend, (He knows her size, taste and everything), or he is a very brazen transvestite, or maybe even a pre-op transsexual. Which always makes me wonder, are men who are either of these, allowed to try clothes on, in a female changing room? It’s a grey area. If you don’t believe me, try it for yourself. Go into your nearest ‘New look’ or whatever, and hang around outside the changing rooms. I guarantee you will see a bloke like I have described. It’s uncanny. Probably best to take a lady with you though, or you could be frog marched out of the store by two burly policemen. And whatever you do, don’t go and hang around outside the changing rooms with a camera round your neck…..that’s just silly! Oh well, I suppose I’d better get back to work now. I have got a menu to plan, and anyway, I am still waiting for someone from the surgery to call me back about the tetanus. Trouble is, by the time they get round to it, my jaw will have probably completely locked, I won’t be able to answer, and they will think they have the wrong number or something…..happy days!
Adios amigos.