Archive for January, 2012

January 29, 2012

Imminent Insanity

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My car is six months old and has done around 20000 miles, it is known as the ‘Marie Celeste’ and is almost legendary where I live. People say that they have seen it pass their window in the dead of night without a driver at the wheel. I tell them, no, that’s not true, it is just that I have fallen asleep and slid so far down the flamin’ driving seat they can no longer see me.

I am in a routine now, where I drop my daughter off at the interview, park the car, then read a book or sleep for the one and a half to two hours that it takes. This does sometimes have to be modified as in a recent example that comes to mind. We arrived at the headquarters of a large, internationally known company, and I stopped in the car park directly opposite the security guard’s booth.

My daughter went over to speak to the guard who raised his head up from his newspaper long enough to tell her how to find reception. At reception the smartly dressed girl told her to take the lift to the fourth floor and the concierge would show her to the office of the director who she was to meet with.

She entered the lift thinking that the concierge would meet her, and with London in mind, imagined a straight-backed ex-military man with a smartly pressed uniform and a row of medal ribbons. At the fourth floor she hunted around until she found an eighteen-years-old girl in a crumpled blouse and skirt, with a row of used tissues and a bad cold, slumped over a desk.

‘Can you tell me where I can find the office of the projects director please,’ she asked.

‘gruffle, sniffle, snort, glumph, me dose, der, downd der,’ the girl said through a snotty tissue as she pointed down the corridor.

Meanwhile, in the car park, half an hour had gone by and the security guard, having finished his newspaper, was staring at me. Being obviously very bored, he thought that he would amuse himself for a few moments by making my life difficult. He got up out of his seat, hoisted his belly up to where it would not interfere with the movement of his knees, opened the door of the booth and headed over to me.

Giving me the very best of his famous ‘Dirty Harry’- ‘Clint Eastwood’ impression, he leaned on the car and muttered through the corner of his mouth, ‘you’re not planning on staying there; are you, sir?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘as my daughter is only going to be about an hour or so, I didn’t think it worth my while to book into an hotel.’

‘Very funny sir, I’m sure. No, I’m afraid you can’t stay there.’

‘Who says?’ I asked, naively.

He sucked his teeth and pressed more heavily on the car as he leaned down to bring his face level with the window.

I must admit that at this point I was expecting him to say something along the lines of  ‘are you feeling lucky, punk?’ However, he didn’t. What he did say was…

‘I’m the head of security for this building and car park and I make the rules – I say you can’t stay there.’

‘So despite this letter saying that we can park in the company car park; you are saying that I can’t park here?’

‘No, I am not saying that you can’t park here, I’m saying that you can’t stay here.’

‘Let me get this right – the car can stay here in the car park but I can’t stay in the car?’

‘That’s right, sir. ‘It’s a question of security.

‘*******, I said, ‘it’s a question of boredom, your boredom. You have bugger all better to do.’

‘Bad language isn’t going to help, sir. I can always call the police, you know.’

Knowing how quickly the police were likely to respond to that particular request for assistance, I invited him to do just that.

To cut a long story short – some time later, after much argy-bargy, my daughter interrupted us as I was about to get out of the car and introduce myself properly. She jumped in alongside of me, looked hard for a couple of seconds and said.

‘What’s wrong with you, why are you in a temper.’

‘Not in a temper.’

‘Yes you are, that little nerve in your face is twitching.’

‘That fat, lazy, jobs-worth of a guard was being a prat.’ I said.

‘Oh, so while I am trying to get these jobs, you are in the car parks trying to lose them for me..?’

I have decided now to call it quits, give up and finally go nuts.

I could use the company, so, if any of you chaps feel like joining me, just put a pair of your wife’s, or girlfriend’s, pants on your head, stick a couple of drinking straws up your nose, put a feather in your ear and roll up one leg of your trousers. I will be waiting for you out at the egg-custard fountain under the purple onion tree. That’s the one on the trail that leads up to the old Molasses mines…

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January 29, 2012

Unrequited Thingy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I discovered my sexual category last evening while watching TV. You will no doubt have heard the terms heterosexual and homosexual – I am a Retrosexual.

Apparently this is someone who has had sex but it was so damn long ago that they can’t remember how it went. It fits perfectly and I have had trouble with this condition for years.

I have been thinking about sex a lot lately as there seems to be an awful lot of it about, with all age groups, everybody is at it – except for me. You would think, wouldn’t you, that with so much of it about someone could shove a bit my way – I need to get my share soon before something bursts!

It’s not as if I haven’t tried, I even thought of turning gay. Trouble with that, is that every gay I have seen, usually on TV or movies is young, rich and good looking…

I am not rich or good looking and as for young, well…  The only thing that I might be able to do something about is the rich bit. I thought of a bank loan – – – all I have to do is work out how I am going to explain it to the bank…

All my troubles would end, of course, if the blonde with the legs would stop playing hard to get. I have heard, via my personal grapevine, that with the slightly better weather we have had over the last couple of days, she has taken to walking her dog in the local fields and woods.

Now, the last time she did this was when she first got the dog, a poodle, and I came up with a cunning plan. I watched her for a couple of days then decided that it was an opportunity too good to miss, so, I would take to walking my dog – at the same time in the same fields.

I had a plan, what I didn’t have was a dog!

I had no intention of buying one so the only alternative was to borrow one. The only person who was evil enough to help me with this was a guy called Ron who has a dirty disgusting, flea-bitten, mangy old mongrel called ‘Jip’.

I obtained the dog and took it home in a trailer, as I had no intention of allowing it in the car. This horrible slobbering lump of useless canine carcass is fed on untreated, green tripe and the rest is up to your imagination.

We set off on a beautiful, Autumn Sunday morning on a walk across the fields that was calculated to take me to exactly the right spot, at the right time, where I would bump into her in a copse where a wild rose grows.

I had been practicing for hours in front of the mirror the night before, so, that morning, when my moment came, and we finally met in that copse by the wild rose – I was word and pose perfect.

The copse was dappled with golden sunlight, the rose looked and smelled divine, she was flushed, flustered and beautiful – everything was going as planned.

I started in on the smooth talk while admiring the poodle – in case the flamin’ mongrel decided to shame me by making a play for it. It didn’t – oh, no, nothing that simple!

While I was admiring the poodle and smooth talking the blonde, the stupid-born, mangy, bloody mongrel mounted me leg…

Sometimes I think I should just end it all.  David

January 22, 2012

That woman has gone AGAIN!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Blonde-With-The-Legs has gone again!!!!!

I’m heartbroken; she’s gone, gone to that den of debauchery ‘New York’ for three days supposed shopping with her aged mother – a likely story!

I know what happens there, she’ll meet some rich yank and it’ll be breakfast at Tiffany’s after a night of passion at some swanky hotel (I watch a lot of old movies).

I begged and pleaded with her not to go. I sat in her house watching her getting ready, begging her, my voice breaking…

‘It’s no good sitting on my suitcase,’ She said ‘I’m going and I’ve got to pack. I’m just going shopping, it’s always been something my mother has wanted to do and I’m going…

It’s not as if we’re married, we’re not even an item (that really hurt) and we are never going to be if you don’t start behaving – now give me my tickets and passport back!’

‘You’ll forget about me, I know you will,’ I said.

‘I’m going to have a bloody good try,’ she muttered.

‘Doesn’t the four years I have been devoted to you mean anything?’ I asked.

‘Four years? You were with that Monette woman for three and a half of them.’ She barked at me.

‘That was only part time,’ I said.

‘Yes, and for the rest of the time you were either chasing me or leering at barmaids you have no morals.’

‘I have always been faithful to you in my mind.’

‘What mind? Now let go of my leg and get off the floor, it’s embarrassing!’

Just then I happened to notice the rather elaborate wall clock (very poor taste) and reluctantly got up off the floor and headed for the door.

‘Oh, seeing sense at last, are we. It’s not like you to give up so easy.’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘but it’s lunch time and the pub’s open.’

She threw a bottle of channel, something or other, very thick glass that actually dented the doorframe! Just imagine what it would have done to my skull! ! !

As any reader of my little tales will know, I have devoted a lot of time to that woman. I have been totally deprived of any sort of love life, It’s so long since I had sex I’ve forgotten who gets tied up.

I had to bare my soul to the barmaid, a woman who does not tell me to get my grubby little eyes out of her cleavage, in fact I have dipped my tie in my drink on more than one occasion while leaning over the bar to get a better look, doesn’t make me clean up every time she visits (she’s never visited but that’s bye the bye) a woman who thoroughly understands me!

Anyway, if she does come back from New York, I certainly won’t be speaking to her!

January 22, 2012

The law and the peasantry

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have to put pen to paper and express a frustration that has been growing in me of late. I had the misfortune to hear a lawyer, on TV, trot out the tired old line that there is one law for all and everyone is treated the same in the eyes of the law.

Crap!

Magna Carta was not the beginning of the law in England, there were recorded laws before it, but it was the beginning of modern law as we know it – although very little of it remains.

However, although written law is classless and supposedly the same for lord and peasant alike, it is interpreted and administered by the upper classes. This has always been the case and always will be.

When the barons forced King John to sign Magna Carta, the only peasants  (like me) who were at Runnymede were there to hold reins and shovel horse shit.

The fact that some parts of Magna Carta worked also in the peasant’s favour, must have been one hell of a shock to the poor old barons. Magna Carta was written as a way to take power from the king and put it in the hands of the aristocracy. Its secondary function was to keep the rest of the populace in check – the law has been keeping the peasants in check on behalf of the upper classes ever since.

January 20, 2012

The Blonde with the legs has deserted me

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I might as well begin this blog as I mean to go on, detailing my love life – err lack of it – as it lurches from disaster to abject failure and back again. Four years I have devoted to the pursuit of one woman and neither of us is getting any younger. At the moment, well…

I am having a really bad time. I have been driving my daughter around the country in her quest for a job and in the past couple of weeks the ’miles travelled score’ is well into four figures. I get up, have a shower and start driving, I go to bed driving – two o’clock this morning I carried out an emergency braking manoeuvre and fell out of bed.

I have cats in the garden, blue-tits in the wall, mice in the shed and my son has fleas – everything is going wrong. The bread has gone mouldy, milk’s off, we’ve run out of sugar and tea and I had to have sausages for my breakfast, I am going to bed with heartburn.

Which brings me to the blonde-with-the-legs who is being even less co-operative than normal. She saw me yesterday in the road for the first time in weeks and what did she say?

‘Thought, we’d got rid of you – I haven’t had a bruise for ages.’ The years I have dedicated to the pursuit of that woman…

I let her unfortunate remark go by me, flung my head high and ignored her.

‘Something wrong with your neck she asked?’ Again I ignored her, gave her the cold shoulder.

I decided to be haughty, treat her with distain, cold and proud – after a week I realised it wasn’t working. I went around to her house to give her a piece of my mind!

‘I have come to give you a piece of my mind,’ I said.

‘Sure you can spare it,’ She said

‘I have a damn-good mind to dump you and go back to my ex-wife,’ I said.

‘Give her my sympathy,’ She said

‘You have broken my heart,’ I said.

‘I was tryin’ f’ yer neck,’ she said.

‘You have broken my heart. You are the only woman I have ever really loved and you have thrown that love back in my face and left me desolate and alone.’

‘That’s another thing,’ She said. ‘I am never going to the theatre with you again. You’ve been hamming it up ever since we saw Les Mis’ – you’ve been unbearable.’

‘You’re terrified of real emotion,’ I said

‘Rats,’ She said.

‘I’m going and I won’t be back,’ I said. ‘Don’t come looking for me, as far as you are concerned, I won’t be there,’

It was no good, though. You just can’t get real feeling into it when you’re shouting through a letter box.

first posted on the ON/AVN SGIA, Inc. site

January 20, 2012

Toilet Seats and Splash Effect

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Toilet seats UP or DOWN and ‘Splash Effect’

These two contentious subjects are high on the female agenda and need some research (Splash Effect being the effect when a male uses the toilet to pee) This subject is now such a cause for concern that some states in the US are trying to get men to pee SITTING DOWN!

Some of the chaps and me decided that we would do some research into these perplexing questions and attempt to arrive at a solution. Sadly, our attempt to resolve the question of whether or not a toilet seat should be left in the up or down position met with, what can only be described as, a full measure of female hostility. Health and safety became a problem when more than one of our researchers was threatened with bodily harm – the attempt had to be abandoned. We believe this to be a temporary set back and will return to the subject at a later date.

On the subject of ‘Splash Effect’, for this it became apparent that we would need the assistance of a Mathematician as several or our, all male, research team, especially Ron, can count to 21 but only if they remove their shoes and socks and others items of apparel.

Unfortunately the only mathematician that I know also happens to be my daughter and her response to the request for help was to mutter the term ‘Men’ with more than a warranted amount of derision and disgust.

It would be interesting to know just when the term ‘Men’ became an expletive – as that it surely is. I can distinctly remember my daughter uttering the word (in innocence) when she was small and my wife telling her to, ‘Go and wash her mouth out’.

To return to the other part of our research – ‘Splash Effect’.

We do not pretend that we have discovered a permanent cure but we do suggest that with a little effort the effect can be reduced.

A simple triangle is involved here that is based on the toilet bowl.

First, the base line, or horizontal axis.

This is equivalent to the distance from the centre of the base of the toilet bowl to the heel of the man; shoe. It can readily be seen that determining factors are shoe size and stance. Size is a factor because a large shoe will mean the heel is further from the bowl. Stance affects the distance because some men stand with the heels fairly close together and the toes angled out to accommodate the bowl; others stand feet together with toes touching the bowl. For the purpose of this equation the latter is taken as the norm.

So, for this part of the problem we need to know shoe size.

Second, the Vertical axis.

This is equivalent to the distance from the base of the heel to a point roughly four inches below the hip.

For this part of the problem we need to know the inside leg.

From the two factors above we can arrive at the length of the hypotenuse, this being the primary factor in ‘Splash Effect’.

Experimentation has allowed us to determine that the length of the hypotenuse becomes a problem when the shoe size exceeds: size 11 and inside leg exceeds 32 inches.

Another factor that has to be taken into account is whether or not the gentleman has been, for want of a better word or phrase ‘Visited by the Rabbi’. I refer of course to the procedure carried out on boys of the Jewish, and other faiths when they are very small. This has to be taken into account as in cases where this procedure has been carried out the force of the torrent is de-restricted and much greater.

Beer also has a major effect and can increase the force and volume of the torrent – also has a major effect on aim!

So what can we determine from our research?

If you have a male guest in your home, you need to know his shoe size, inside leg length and whether or not he has been ‘Visited by the Rabbi’.

If the shoe size is greater than 11, the inside leg greater than 32 inches and he has been visited by the Rabbi – don’t give him any beer!