Thursday, 16 April 2015

I'm a weight Nazi!


Courtesy of Raktim Chatterjee at
FreeDigitalPhotos.net
    'Wow, he's a big lad,' I said to Mrs Jones as we sat together on the settee watching our twice-weekly dollop of Judge Judy. 'Look at that gut; when was the last time he saw his knees, not to mention his bits and pieces!'

The victim of my verbal assault was a young man in his early 20s, standing before the solemn queen of arbitration in an attempt to sue his ex-girlfriend for the cost of an engagement ring. Clad in a grey suit and black tie, he clearly had made an effort to dress appropriately for Court. Articulate and respectful, he outlined the rationale for his claim. Thinking back, his demeanour suggested a pleasant, intelligent human being. But at the time I ignored those qualities, my attention focused only on the straining lower buttons of his white cotton shirt as they struggled to contain a wodge of overhanging flab demanding its freedom.      

I used to be a nice man. Size didn’t matter – except, of course, when creasing the sheets in the midst of lust – it was only behaviour and personality that counted when evaluating another human being. But that all changed in 2013 when a self-imposed exercise programme resulted in me shedding my beer-belly and 30 pounds.

Since my conversion from a chubby slob to thoroughbred athlete (don’t puncture my delusional bubble – it’s hard enough to maintain a positive self-image at 56), I’ve developed an obsession with people’s shapes and, like reformed smokers, I am now the harshest critic of those who are yet to change their ways. When meeting males for the first time, I zoom in on their contours and mass. Does he carry more than one chin? Are there any man-boobs lurking under his outer garments? Is that a poorly inflated rubber ring clinging to his waste or a swathe of whale blubber?

I know my reactions are distasteful, ignorant and sometimes repulsive. My rational self often immediately challenges my prejudicial thoughts:

‘Don’t be a fatist; you’re no better than a racist, sexist or any other “ist”’

‘If you must form opinions of others, look further than their physical appearance’

‘Never judge a book by its cover’

‘Some people are born to be bigger than others; it’s in their genes’

‘There are unfortunate folk with medical conditions that render weight loss difficult, even impossible’.

 
I’m familiar with all these retorts and believe them to be morally and factually sound. But there is an emotional, almost instinctive part of me that is impossible to restrain. Feel free to unfriend me now; I’ll understand.

Nor is my discriminatory gaze exclusive to males. When I’m introduced to a woman one of my first thoughts is, ‘How firm is her butt?’ A close second is, ‘What proportion of her breasts are pure mammary rather than excess poundage?’ And so my internal conflict is triggered again, my emotive prejudice challenged by my rational and moral values.

I often feel compelled to explain my turmoil to Mrs Jones. When she catches me staring at women’s arses and boobs I’m at pains to point out that I’m not yearning for soft, silky, tender, warm, succulent female flesh … …[* breath quickens*] … … but struggling to resolve my internal conflict. She is not yet convinced!

 

 

         

 

     

 

 

 

Friday, 3 April 2015

Measuring up


I recently stumbled upon an article in Medical News Today titled ‘What is the average penis size?’ My curiosity pricked – it’s my scientific mind, you know – I read on. Apparently, the average length of the male member is about 3.4 inches (8.5 cms) when flaccid, and 5.5 inches (14 cms) when fully erect.

Seconds later, I’m rummaging in Mrs Jones’ sowing tin for the tape measure, hands trembling with anticipation. After a fruitless search among the needles and threads, I shifted the pursuit to my toolbox – the puns just keep on coming; whoops, there’s another one – until I located the spring-loaded tape, and retired to the bathroom to determine how I measured up.

I’m sure most men will be familiar with the process of penis measurement, but I doubt whether many have carried out the procedure deploying a steel-bladed, automatic-locking device with push-button retraction; you’ll be familiar with the contraption, the one that closes like a mouse trap when you press the ‘recoil’ knob. Suffice it to say that, at the age of 56, I almost earned entry into the Guinness Book of Records for the oldest man to perform a do-it-yourself circumcision.

Smug with the realisation that I was comfortably within the average range (albeit after a fair bit of burrowing into the testicular region), I returned, reassured, to read the remainder of the article. One study had reported that women’s satisfaction with the sexual act depended more on penis girth than length. My eyes scoured the text for the relevant data: the average circumference of the trouser-snake is 3.7 inches (9.5 cms) at slumber and 4.7 inches (12 cms) when reporting for duty; cue round two of jousting with the steel tape measure.

After the discovery that my member was again firmly within the average range, not even the loss of 50 units of O-negative could erase my self-satisfied grin.

Apparently, there are cultural differences in average penis size. It seems that Indian men were dealt an inferior stack when the todger cards were distributed, their average length falling a crucial half-inch short of their American counterparts. So it’s New Delhi rather than New York as a destination for me this summer; brace yourselves Keshika, Sita and Shefali, big Bryan – or comfortably-in-the-average-range Bryan - is on his way.

 

Thursday, 12 March 2015

Shocking curiosity

Courtesy of Suat Eman at
FreeDigitalPhotods.net
     'Whatever you do, never, ever, stick your finger in here' said
      my 11-year-old brother.

Tony, my elder sibling, was standing in our living room with the table lamp in his hand. He was pointing at the opening where the light bulb would go. I was aware that the lamp had been without a bulb (and shade) for some time; each morning, prior to leaving for work, my dad would plug his electric shaver into this socket.

‘Why not?’ I asked.
      ‘Just don’t do it’, said Tony. ‘If you do you’ll get electrocuted.’

When Tony left, and I was alone playing on the carpet with my Lego, I struggled to maintain concentration on building my plastic-brick tower. My gaze repeatedly drifted to the lamp socket. It looked harmless enough; brown plastic casing circling two small holes. And what did ‘electrocuted’ mean? To my 7-year-old mind, anything with the word ‘cute’ in it couldn’t be that bad; my grandmother called me it all the time.

As the morning progressed, my bottom (and plastic tower) shuffled ever nearer to the lamp until I was in touching distance of that two-holed curiosity. Tentatively, as if extending a hand towards a sleeping Rottweiler, my fingers brushed the plastic casing, before snatching them back. Nothing happened. Tony must have been trying to scare me again; one of his favourite pastimes.

I approached the socket a second time, my index finger outstretched. It hovered at the entry, before plunging into the abyss.

My recollection of what happened next is vague and fragmented. I recall a searing vibration shooting along the length of my arm, as if I was clinging to a giant locust. Moments later I was lying on my back, in the middle of our living room, surrounded by Lego bricks, with a whiff of singed flesh in my nostrils.

To this day I remain uncertain as to my big brother’s motive in issuing his warning about that light socket. He knew I was a curious boy who always sought explanations and who was inclined to experiment to find answers. Almost half a century on, when I reminded him of the incident, he claimed no memory of it, adding that, if he said such a thing, it would have been fuelled by a desire to keep his little brother safe. I continue to doubt; after all, a few months earlier he had almost expired after I locked him in a suitcase. Nevertheless, we remain the closest of brothers, perhaps fused in friendship by having both – miraculously - survived our childhoods.  

 

         

 

     

 

 

 

 

 

Monday, 23 February 2015

Seven questions for seven deviants

The queen of the blogging world, Terrye Toombs, posed seven of her most devilish questions and I was one of the victims. If anyone is interested to hear about knickerbockers flying over Castorbridge Wood in the remake of a Thomas Hardy classic - and much, much more - drop in via the following link:

http://asshatrants.blogspot.co.uk/2015/02/seven-questions-for-seven-bloggers.html?showComment=1424727656215#c7547483708254824656

I'm sure you will not be disappointed.

Saturday, 14 February 2015

Big-ball syndrome

Courtesy of Salvatore Vuono at
FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Recently, I read an interesting post, titled ‘things women with big boobs would like you to understand’, in which the author laments the boob sweat, straining blouse-buttons and the way that hugging someone much shorter than herself can mimic a scene from a soft-porn film. This got me thinking about what might represent the male equivalent of this anatomical curse. It came to me suddenly: big-ball syndrome, followed by the growing realization that I am one of the afflicted.

At 56 years old, my ballocks are enormous and, worse still, seem to be inflating with each passing day. So what are the disadvantages of owning a huge pair of gonads?

  1. When I sit on the toilet my balls plunge into the water like depth-charges; if there are any enemy submarines stupid enough to be lurking in my lavatory bowl they do not stand a chance.
  2. In comparison, they make my manhood appear even smaller than it is, like a shrivelled slug perched on a hideously obese torso.
  3. At times my oversized bollocks are inclined to spill out the sides of my off-white Jockey briefs and fuse to my thighs. Walking any distance with these gonadal flaps can chaff terribly, particularly on a hot day.
  4. If my jeans are too tight my gonads are prone to tunnel around the back, rendering them vulnerable to crushing when I sit down. (And ladies, if you think childbirth is painful you know nothing!)
  5. On those carefree summer holidays when I don the speedos I appear to be cultivating a grotesque hernia; as I walk poolside, the kids scatter, traumatised by the monstrous, misshapen blob protruding from my gusset while their sympathetic parents vacate their sunbeds and encourage me to rest.
  6. I suffered extreme embarrassment prior to my vasectomy, the pre-op shave representing a formidable challenge; imagine scraping a razor over two rutted, water-filled balloons and you’ll be getting close.
 
So let me hear no more grumblings from you big-bosomed women.

 
 

 

 

 

Thursday, 8 January 2015

My bicycle fantasy

Courtesy of farconville at
FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Two years ago, while clad in a burgundy onesie that my daughter had bought me – she’s always had a devilish sense of humour - I glimpsed my 54-year-old torso in a mirror. The grotesque sight of my beer gut, shrouding my waistline like a wobbly canopy, shocked me into action. The potent mix of onesie and male vanity compelled me, for the first time in a quarter of a century, to enter into a regular exercise regime and, as a result, I have since shed 25 pounds.  

Part of my workout involves three 30-minute bursts per week on a static bike – I’m too wimpy to ride a real one. Although effective in maintaining fitness and burning off blubber, heavy-duty pedalling alone in our back room is a tedious affair. As such, my wild and fantastical imagination is an asset … …

I’m back at my old workplace and it is the annual charity event. My team has selected me to represent them in the ‘static-bike challenge’. At 56, I’m the oldest competitor. My friends at work express respect for me for ‘giving it a go’, despite their belief that I have no chance of winning this test of endurance.

A huge and boisterous crowd, almost exclusively comprising of attractive females, has gathered to witness the contest. As I walk – nay, strut – to my bike, wearing my knee-length navy shorts and white vest, I overhear two vivacious blonde girls talking about me:
‘Wow, how fit is he!’
‘Just look at those muscular legs, and his firm, chiselled torso!’

There are five other men in the competition. One of my opponents is Mike, 20 years my junior and an arrogant nob-head from the neighbouring office. I dislike him intensely, and always have done. He smirks when he sees me. ‘I hope there’s a defibrillator handy,’ he says, evoking laughs from the few cronies who have accompanied him. I ignore him, maintaining my laser-like focus on the task in hand.

We mount our bikes and, at the starter’s command, begin to pedal vigorously. The decibel level in the arena rises to a point where everything sounds distorted. After 15 minutes of frenetic pedalling, my rivals start to drop out, one by one, each exhausted and spent. Twenty minutes, and only Mike and I remain in the contest. As I pump the pedals, the rhythmic thrusting of my thighs has not gone unnoticed by the ladies in the front row.
‘He’s so powerful!’
‘Goodness gracious, that man oozes testosterone!’
'What a gladiator!’

Giggling, they share crudities about what they would like to do to my body. They yearn to be the bike under my pounding limbs. Their lady-bits moisten. They stare at the bulge in front of my shorts, imagining a truncheon-like phallus lurking within. They redden at the awareness of their own arousal.

In scenes unwitnessed since Beatle-mania, swooning girls, overcome by my athletic beauty, are helped from the stadium. While being lifted onto the stretchers they cry, ‘We love you, Bryan! We love you, Bryan!’

After 25 minutes, Mike crumbles over the handlebars, wheezing like an asthmatic 19th-century steam locomotive, defeated. A crescendo of cheering greets my resounding victory. To humiliate him further, I continue to pedal for an additional five minutes as the ladies scream their approval. As I dismount, triumphant, I’m swamped in a surge of adoring female flesh.

 ************

Alone in the austere back room of our house, I tentatively get off the bike, feeling groggy and on the point of collapse. I almost slip on the puddles of gooey sweat on the floor-tiles under each handlebar. My haemorrhoids are stinging like a swarm of vindictive hornets. I head to the bathroom, undress and inspect myself in the mirror. I resemble a withered Dumbledore after a fruitless night scouring the earth for Horcruxes. The grey hairs on my chest spiral downwards, limp and aimless. My trouser-snake appears to have tunnelled into my abdomen, rendering my genitals concave. I smell like a vagrant’s arsehole.

Ah well, I’d better get showered; I’ve got the weekly shop to do.    

 
PS
A bowel-blastingly funny e-book will shortly be published on Amazon, titled 'Does Not Write Well With Others'. Together with some of the zaniest bloggers on the planet, I have contributed to a compilation of hilarious stories that may well evoke incontinence in the unsuspecting reader; you have been warned! Watch this space for further details.

Wednesday, 24 December 2014

The pain of loss

Courtesy of Naypong at FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Four weeks ago, on a sunny Sunday morning, I watched my 24-year-old son play football (soccer) for his local pub team. It had been a while since I last attended one of Ryan’s matches. The experience moved me in a way I had not expected.

Throughout his childhood, I would routinely take him to his junior football games, stand on the side line shouting words of encouragement, and deliver a sweaty, mud-splattered boy to the safety of home. During the return journey we’d discuss the match and his performance, analysing his strengths and weaknesses. We’d share our delight about a thunderous tackle and a defence-splitting pass. We’d discuss a dubious refereeing decision or the histrionic behaviour of the opposition’s manager. Often I would nag him about trailing sludge into my car and sullying the upholstery, and he’d urge me to “chill out”.

Ryan is now over six-feet tall, with a build like a spinach-fuelled Popeye. In an entertaining game, his pub team defeated their local rivals, 4 – 2. My son impressed in the central midfield area, spraying precision passes around the field with his cultured left foot – an asset (I insist) that he inherited from his father. Ryan scored one goal, and created two others.

At the end of the game, I bristled with pride as I marched onto the pitch to congratulate him.
“Well played son; that was a great performance.”
“Cheers, dad” he replied.

And then he left with his team-mates, heading for the pub to celebrate their victory with some post-match beers and sandwiches, an enjoyable pilgrimage I had made multiple times during my football-playing days.

I returned to my car, alone. As I set off for home, a profound emptiness engulfed me. A ridiculous voice in my head screamed, “He should be with me!” The voice of reason retorted, “He’s crossed the threshold into adulthood; he no longer requires your chaperone.” My vision blurred as I struggled to see through a watery haze. I pulled over to the side of the road. The pollen count must have been high.