Friday, 24 June 2016

What does your smartphone notebook say about you?


I showed some reluctance to embrace the technological age, convinced that a combination of quill, parchment and carrier pigeon could fulfil all my communication needs. Alas, like almost everyone, I eventually surrendered and now own a range of devices, including a smartphone.

Nowadays I wonder how I ever survived without my Sony Xperia and devote a chunk of each day to spouting my opinions on Facebook, Twitter and other forms of social media. In addition, one application that I regularly use is the ‘Notes’ app, a simple tool that allows one to jot down useful information of any kind; a sort of repository for details, facts and figures I believe I may need to access in the future. Perhaps I’ve got too much time on my hands, but last week I spent an hour or so looking down my list of headings – 72 in total – that comprise my personal notes section. It made interesting reading; indeed, one might consider it a personality assessment or mid-life review.

Some of the headings were unsurprising for a 57-year-old bloke striving to earn a few extra quid as a freelance writer and trainer. Thus, my notes section included titles such as 'teaching venues', 'books to read' and 'ideas for blogposts'. However, other headers on the list were less predictable and maybe provide a neat snapshot of my life.

Below I share a few of the more curious headings on my notebook. I’ve not included any of the detail filed under each one – I’ll leave that to your imagination.


BUSH PRUNING

LASCIVIOUS

BLOOD PRESSURE

VA VA VOOM

BURNLEY LADIES

GENERIC PHARMACY

RED WINE

ROOM 1621

LLOYDS PHARMACY

TURKEY

ALOE VERA GEL

CHRONIC COUGH

PILES

VIBES


After that peep into my personal world, do you think you know me any better now? Likewise, take a look at your own device; what does your smartphone notebook say about you?






Phot courtesy of Sira Anamwong at FreeDigitalPhotos.net



     




Friday, 20 May 2016

Macho madness in the front garden


I’m not a gardener. It typically requires all my self-motivational powers to hoist me out of my
armchair to mow the back lawn once a month. But a recent house move, male pomp, and a desire to impress our new neighbours, spawned some frenetic green-fingered activity that almost resulted in my hospitalisation.



The front garden comprises a sloping rockery down one side, and a gravel area in the centre with flower beds around the edges. A two-day combined onslaught by me and Mrs Jones successfully removed all the weeds. Job complete, I was anticipating a few weeks of rest until I noticed my lady gazing at the pebbly expanse with an expression that could only mean that she was forming a cunning plan.



‘We need some decorative slate for this middle section,’ she said. ‘It’s looking a bit shabby.’



I held back my sighs. There was no point arguing – her mind was made up – so off we went to the local garden centre.



‘This blue stuff would look nice,’ she said while pointing to a mound of hefty bags stacked outside the main entrance. ‘How many would we need?’



‘Four?’ I ventured, mindful that they were £4.99 ($8) each.



‘We’ll require more than that,’ she sneered.



‘OK, eight then; but let’s remember whose fault it is when we have loads left over.’



When we’d paid the lady cashier, she insisted that one of her boys load them into the back of my car. I thanked her for her kindness, while inwardly affronted that she thought that my 57-year-old frame was not up to the task.



The same afternoon I set to work, while Mrs Jones attended to indoor domestic chores. Yes, they were heavy, but I managed to unload each of the eight bags of ‘blue slate decorative aggregate’ and dispense the contents onto the gravelly stretch of my front garden.



Thirty minutes later, my sweaty brow and dusty eyebrows appeared at the open front-room window, prompting Mrs Jones to turn off her noisy vacuum cleaner.



‘We’re going to need a few more bags,’ I said.



She immediately gave me the ‘I told you so’ look. ‘How many?’



‘Thirty-five more should do it.’



This time I ordered online, and the following afternoon the garden-centre van reversed onto my drive. A muscular, gypsy-looking 30-something with a shock of black hair, wearing a flimsy white t-shirt that struggled to contain his rippled torso, opened the rear doors of his vehicle.



‘I’ll need to unload these bags next to where you’re going to spread them; they’re heavy.’



‘No, stack them over here, next to the garage,’ I replied, pointing at a spot about 20 metres away from my front garden.



‘Are you sure?’ he asked, looking me up and down as if assessing my body mass index.



‘Yes, here will be fine,’ I said, smugly.



The hulk proceeded to flip each of the bags from the van onto his shoulder and stacked them on my driveway as directed, completing the whole venture in less than five minutes.



Immediately he’d left, I set to work. How difficult could it be? I’d earlier managed to spread eight of the things, so another 35 shouldn’t be too difficult. The warm, sunny afternoon had brought a few neighbours out into their gardens. I sensed they had clocked my conversation with the delivery man. I had an audience. The challenge was on.



The first few bags caused little difficulty. I flipped each onto my thigh before raising it to chest height (like a professional weight-lifter) and strutting across to my garden for spreading. Indeed, I imagined I was in ‘The World’s Strongest Man’ competition showing those hairy Neanderthals (who, in my imagination, comprised the other contestants) how it was done. I could swear that the lady next door was almost swooning at my raw athleticism.



By the time I reached double figures, I could feel the burn of lactic acid accumulating in my arms and legs. The bags were no longer reaching chest height, instead dangling around my legs as I dragged them while clinging to two corners of the plastic packaging.



When I reached the twenties, I was panting like a Viagra-fuelled dog. One lift triggered an audible fart, and I prayed that the neighbours were out of earshot, or that the sound of my gaseous emission had been muffled by all my gasping and wheezing. I felt dizzy, and suspected that I was now swaying as I heaved each load to the garden. My vision blurred as salty perspiration stung my eyes. 



I think it was around bag number 31 that I wet myself, the energy behind my upward thrust, while barely sufficient to move the blue slate, was enough to contract my bladder. Thankfully my navy-blue tracksuit bottoms concealed the damp patch emerging around my groin.



Despite these adversities, I somehow managed to complete the job. As I staggered back indoors, feeling confused and disorientated, my clothing stained with sweat, piss and spittle, Mrs Jones was stood gazing out of the front-room window.



‘Ah, that looks much better,’ she said.



‘It wasn’t that difficult,’ I muttered, while hurrying to the bathroom to clean myself up before she turned round. ‘They weren’t that heavy.’     














Thursday, 21 April 2016

The excruciating 3rd meet


Micky Flanagan, a superb British comedian, tells a gag about the social awkwardness of unintentionally meeting someone you know on three occasions within a short period of time. I didn’t grasp what he meant until last Wednesday at the local supermarket.



Four months ago we moved into a new house and, not being the most outgoing person – OK, I accept I’m a smidgeon away from a full-time hermit – interactions with my new neighbours have been rare. There is, however, a bloke who lives opposite who, several times each day, stands in his garden smoking a cigarette; I’ve yet to discover his name but Mrs Jones and I refer to him as ‘nicotine Norman’. I like to be civil so, when leaving or entering my house, when he’s standing there puffing on his Capstan full-strength, we have exchanged nods and one-word greetings.



Anyway, last Wednesday I’m pushing my supermarket trolley along the fresh-meat aisle when there he is, nicotine Norman, lumbering towards me.



‘How you doing?’ I say.



‘Fine thanks,’ he replies.



We exchange smiles and proceed with our weekly shops. I feel pleased with my show of friendliness.



No more than a couple of minutes later, while rummaging in the men’s haircare section, I look up to find Norman bearing down on me.



‘We must stop meeting like this,’ I say, feeling a bit uncomfortable at my feeble attempt at humour.



‘Yes, people will start to talk,’ he replies.



Fast forward five minutes and the worst social scenario known to man unfolds next to the fruit and veg: the 3rd meet. I’d exited the frozen-food lane, and taken a sharp left-hander, when I spot him. He is 20 yards away but approaching fast. A kaleidoscope of questions rush through my mind: has he seen me?; can I do an about turn without him noticing?; perhaps I can look down, as if deep in thought, and pass him as if I haven’t registered his presence?; or maybe I can whip out my mobile phone and pretend to be immersed in conversation with Mrs Jones?



But it’s too late; our eyes meet.



I shrug my shoulders and emit a, ‘Gee-whiz’.



He pulls a strange face, his mouth curling on one side as if suffering a stroke.



I spread my arms, with open palms, and grunt.



He shakes his head and smiles, in that ‘would you believe it?’ way.



Excruciating!



Has anyone else endured a third meet? Or is it just a British thing?  


Photo courtesy of renjith krishnan at FreeDigitalPhotos.net



   




Monday, 4 April 2016

A review of my life - the concise version


It is often said that people's attention spans are getting shorter, particularly when reading online. With this in mind - plus the fact that I can't be arsed to string a full sentence together - today's ramblings will comprise single-word descriptors (OK pedants, a few phrases and compound words as well) of each decade of my life; a sort of concise, pocket-sized version of my time on planet earth.  

0 – 10 years: hazy, poo, magical, summery,  Procol Harum, giddy, peeping, kaleidoscope, chips, ice-cream, Santa, tooth fairy, kiss-chase, Dion, climbing-rope tingles, doctors-&-nurses & tonsils.                                                        

11 – 20 years: wanking, rejection, heartbreak, fear, fury, idealism, wanking, Chi-Lites, exploring, experimenting,groping, fingering, wanking, Eagles, dribbling, escaping, wanking, Barley Wine, preening, angst,  puking, posing, pissing & wanking.

21 – 30 years:  shagging, intoxication, studying, shagging, bingeing, all-night parties, achievement, qualifications, love, commitment, Leonard Cohen, shagging, poverty, worrying  & shagging.     

31 – 40 years: weddings, breeding, striving, promotion,  progression,  frenetic,  sleepless,  fathering, exhaustion, caring, doting, vasectomy & cask ales. 

41 – 50  yearsmirror-gazing, plucking, introspection, Merlot, fillet steak, trimming, blogging, lettuce, regretting,  reflecting & mid-life wobbles.. 

51 – 60 years: retiring, writing, publication, walking, Viagra,  haemorrhoids, greyness, drooping, sagging,  loss, funerals,  closeness, intimacy, shrivel, Port, aching, holidaying, cruising, spending kids inheritance & contentment. 

What would your life look like in single words or phrases?



Photo courtesy of Vlado at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Friday, 11 March 2016

Homicidal wife or tight trousers? You decide


‘Are you trying to kill me?' I screamed, rubbing the back of my head and glaring at Mrs Jones.

'What are you going on about?' she said, while nonchalantly opening the front-seat passenger door of our Toyota RAV.

Until this point, it had been a typical Friday morning: a 30-minute, high-intensity workout on my static exercise bicycle in our garage, the exertion of which – according to Mrs Jones – sounds like I’m buggering a pig, particularly one with a tight, serrated arsehole; a shower and shave while belting out a tuneless rendition of Mr Tambourine Man; slipping into my favourite black Wranglers, skin tight so as to achieve an agreeably warm hold on my nether regions while allowing me to maintain the delusion that my compressed 57-year-old butt could attract female attention; and then it was off to Tesco supermarket to complete the weekly shop.

Grocery mission accomplished, we exited through the automatic doors and into the carpark. I’m proud of our new car. So while Mrs Jones pushed the supermarket trolley containing eight hefty bags of shopping, I played around with my fob-key, one press for unlock and a second to automatically raise the hatch-back door, both operations delivered from a distance of 30 yards, no less - I do hope somebody was watching. When we reached the rear of the car, being a gentleman with traditional values, I offered to take on the job of loading the car boot (trunk).

The luggage space is a deep one on a Toyota RAV so it required a 90-degree bend to push the heaviest bag into the far corner of the recess. While in this vulnerable, submissive position (with pouting buttocks straining to greet fellow shoppers and torso immersed in the depths of the boot) I heard a whirring noise; someone had pressed the key fob and the hatch-back door had started to close. Images pushed into my mind of being guillotined at the waist, with my severed legs twitching on the floor like a scene from some gruesome horror movie. I sharply retreated from the bowels of the boot only to strike my head on the descending door.

***

So who was responsible for my near-death experience? Despite my wife's protestations, I still harbour my suspicions. Two electronic key fobs lurked in the vicinity of the car that morning, one in Mrs Jones’ possession and the other safely ensconced in the front pocket of my tackle-hugging Wranglers.

I’m off now to check whether she’s bumped up the value of my life-assurance policy.      



   


Friday, 26 February 2016

A lady's guide to controlling a man's erection

I’ve been thinking about my penis again.

This treasured male organ is arguably the most complicated, and least understood, piece of a chap’s body. Nevertheless, the knowledge of the factors controlling its rise and fall - whether it will puff out its chest and stand proud or burrow into the folds of the bollocks – can bestow ladies with a level of power that could dwarf the wizardry of Hermione in the Harry Potter films. 

So here it is, the woman’s guide to how to control your man’s erection. Used wisely, your partner’s todger will inflate or deflate as you so wish, like a balloon permanently attached to your pump.  


1. Flirting & teasing
Subtle flirting, with your beloved and other men, can send a tidal wave of blood towards your partner’s willy.

Sitting next to your dearest on the settee in the evening, clad only in a silky negligee, can often achieve good results. Importantly, he must know that you are not wearing any underwear; even though he’s seen your lady bits a thousand times, the knowledge of what is hiding a few inch above a flowery hemline can send the male of the species into a frenzy.

As for other men, an awareness that you can still attract testosterone-fuelled attention can be a turn on – maybe it’s something to do with a primitive instinct to compete for access to the on-heat female. The sight of the plumber glancing at Mrs Jones’ luscious arse, or a breast wobble, certainly can get my heater running, and I’m sure this doesn’t just apply to me. Does it? Really?

2. Pre-sex comments
When sexual activity is imminent, and the man lets the beast out of the cage – or in my case, when I seductively slip out of my off-white, gusset-worn briefs – the woman’s immediate reaction can determine whether it’s going to be a lusty marathon of uninhibited passion or a floppy 60-metre dash.

Facial expressions conveying awe are always welcome, particularly when accompanied by comments implying that the item swinging between the man’s legs is big enough to do some harm if driven by an irresponsible owner; ‘wow, what’s got into that big boy’ or ‘be gentle with me’ never fail to encourage further engorgement of the male organ.

In contrast, statements often used in response to a baby or a puppy – ‘ah look at him, how cute’ or ‘isn’t he adorable’ – will ensure the meat shrivels as quickly as a salted slug.

3. Gas emissions
Ladies, you may have shared the same bed with him for decades, but farting or belching during coitus are a definite no-no. The smell of gas, from either end of the digestive tract, will stun a stout erection like a taser, leaving it twitchy and limp.

4. Grasp his weapon with both hands
Irrespective of what the agony-aunts say, size matters. At least it does in the male mind, where a belief that heavy weaponry will be involved is essential to sustain an erection.

So, ladies, when you grab his willy don’t use a finger and thumb; that gives the impression of micro work, like threading cotton through a needle. Instead grab his todger with both hands, one above the other, as if about to climb a rope. Granted, in my case this may require David-Blaine-like illusionary skills and a degree of finger dexterity worthy of a professional hand-puppeteer, but the deception will always be rewarded with enhanced sexual performance.    

5. Mid-coitus noises
In the midst of sexual abandon, orgasmic female cries – genuine or otherwise – will keep the phallic embers burning. Silence gives the impression (probably accurate in Mrs Jones’ case) that the lady’s mind has drifted and rather than being immersed in the pleasure of your lusty lunges, she is instead considering what colour of varnish she’ll put on her nails in the morning.

And some mid-sex comments must be avoided. Speaking from personal experience, guaranteed willy-softeners include: ‘Are you in yet?’; ‘Can you keep your mouth shut, you’re spitting all over me’; and ‘Will you cut your toe-nails – they’re like fucking talons!’.

6. Skin scratching
Urgent clawing of the male buttocks indicates that the lady is enjoying herself and, as such, sustains the blood flow to man’s fifth limb. Superficial scratches down the back - as long as they don’t cause haemorrhage and divert blood flow from where it’s most needed – are also helpful in instilling the primitive, animalistic dimension to the sexual act that men find so arousing.

A definite no-no, however, is inflicting pain on the meat and two veg. Ballocks are meant to be caressed and cradled, not grabbed and twisted. And fingernails piercing the todger is a sure-fire way of transforming a throbbing phallus into a wet straw.


So, ladies, there you have it; the knowledge and power to forever control the male member. What better skill could you wish for? Your welcome.



Photos courtesy of: interphasesolution at FreeDigitalPhotos.net
                                arztsamui at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

Thursday, 4 February 2016

Women don't fart


Sharing an office with Suzanne had many advantages. 
 


In her early 30s, with shoulder-length auburn hair and full figure, she brightened my working week. Indeed, she kindled all my five senses. My 50-year-old eyes feasted on her taut buttocks and fulsome breasts – but only when she was occupied and wouldn’t notice my attention; I’m a gentleman and wouldn’t wish to make her feel uncomfortable nor for her, God forbid, to conclude that I was indulging in unwholesome thoughts. Her gentle voice caressed my eardrums with intelligent commentary on work-related issues. And as for smell, her entry into the office was always followed by a delightful waft of Opium perfume mingled with herbal-essence shampoo. Alas, the touching and tasting only happened within the confines of my imagination.

But there is one major drawback of sharing an office with a woman: you can’t fart. Amongst males, one can let an audible one fly, apologise, and carry on as normal. But with females around, gassy emissions are prohibited.

Contrary to what you read in biology textbooks and on social media, pretty women never fart. Nor do they defecate. It is a little-known fact that females’ waste products, and associated gases, evaporate from the tops of their heads and smell like hairspray.

One morning in the office, Suzanne at the adjacent desk, I felt the ominous stomach rumble, like the extended growl of thunder prior to an electric storm. A swirling vortex of noxious gas was demanding release and accelerating towards my arse. And I knew it would produce a stench of eye-watering intensity - six pints of finest cask ale the night before would see to that - so slipping it out silently was not an option. 

‘I’ll pop out and photocopy this document’ I said, while rising from my chair and grabbing the nearest piece of paper from the desk.

‘Do you want me to do it later?’ asked Suzanne. ‘I’ve got a lot of photocopying to do and …’

‘No it’s OK’, I interrupted, already exiting the office.

Clenching my buttocks, I scampered along the corridor to the deserted photocopying room and closed the door behind me. In the privacy of this oasis, I leaned forward, hands on my thighs, and prepared to let rip. But nothing happened. As with other bodily functions – urinating in the doctor’s bottle, achieving an erection during one’s first sexual encounter – the process of breaking wind can, paradoxically, fail to deliver when you most need it to. On this occasion, my intestinal cyclone of noxious vapour had performed a U-turn and burrowed into the depths of my gut. I loitered a couple of minutes beside the photocopier, expecting the stomach rumble to return, but the gas showed no sign of a seeking a reappearance.

Deflated in mood, if not in body, I returned to my office. As I entered I noticed Suzanne’s cheeks had turned crimson. Unusually, she did not look up to acknowledge my presence, instead maintaining an unwavering focus on her computer screen.

And then it hit me. A rancid mix of rotting egg and semi-digested cabbage clung to the inside of my nostrils. My embarrassment was palpable with the horrific realisation that, unknown to me, my fart must have slipped out during my hasty exit. After all, what other possible explanation could there be?



Photos courtesy of: Stockimages at FreeDigitalPhotos .net
                                Stuart Miles at FreeDigitalPhotos.net