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

 

Friday, 11 December 2015

It used to be fun

For each of the last 25 years Mrs Jones and I have invited our parents to our home for Christmas dinner. This time we’ve made a momentous decision: it’s not happening!  
Courtesy of Apolonia at
FreeDigitalPhotos.net


It used to be fun. Those hours spent in the kitchen preparing the traditional feast would be rewarded later in the day by a sense of mischief and family togetherness: in the early years, the kids excitedly introducing their grandparents to their favourite gifts from Santa; the grown-ups engaging in alcohol-fuelled banter around the meal table; and poignant reminiscing in the evening about the tales of our own childhoods, stories that still amused despite yearly repetition.

The decline started with the death of my father-in-law a decade ago. We all miss Henry; his whacky comments about ‘the good old days’, delivered in a dialect that only his trusted inner circle could understand, always generated a lively debate, and one couldn’t help but recognise that – despite some of his more extreme pronouncements –  underneath, there lived a kind, generous human being. More recently his widow, Sheila, has succumbed to that terrible, dignity-stripping brain disease called Alzheimer’s, her memory for new events lasting no longer than a few seconds. Although my own parents, both in their mid-80s, are in good physical health, my mother is profoundly deaf and my father is obsessed with his Golden Retriever to such a degree that he feels increasingly uncomfortable about leaving his beloved dog at home alone for longer than a couple of hours.

Typically, while Mrs Jones and I – clad in psychedelically-coloured pinafores and sweating like condemned convicts on death row - slice carrots and baste turkey in the kitchen, in the living room bizarre goings-on are afoot:

 Sheila: ‘Has Ryan (25-year-old grandson) got a girlfriend yet?’

 Mum: ‘Sorry, Sheila, I’m a bit deaf – you’ll have to speak up.’

 Sheila: ‘Has Ryan got himself a girlfriend yet?’

 Mum: (turning to face dad): ‘What’s she saying, Harry?’

 Dad: (stroking his eyebrow while lost in in deep thought about the current wellbeing of his dog)’What was who saying?’
Mum: ‘Sheila has asked me something.’

 Dad: ‘What did you say, Sheila?’

 Sheila: ‘Has Ryan got himself a girlfriend yet?’

 Dad (turning to face mum): ‘She’s asking if our Ryan has got himself a girlfriend yet.’

 Mum (turning back to face Sheila): Oh, yes – he’s got himself a lovely young lady called Faith. They’ve been together for over a year.’

 Sheila: ‘Very good.’

 [SILENCE FOR 15 SECONDS]

 Sheila: ‘Has Ryan got himself a girlfriend yet?’

 
In the aftermath of Christmas 2014, it struck me: no one is enjoying this habitual façade, so why are we subjecting ourselves to it? So this year, at 4.00 pm on the 25th December the family (me, Mrs Jones, our parents and our two 20-something children) will be secreted around a table in the local tavern being served the traditional Christmas dinner, swilled down with copious quantities of fine wine. After two hours, a minibus will collect us and return us all to my home where we will, in turn, select golden-oldie tunes from You-tube and reminisce. At 8.30 pm the minibus will return and take our parents home – much to the relief of our parents, as well as the Golden Retriever – leaving Mrs Jones and I some quality time to devote to our two wonderful offspring and each other.

Sorted!    

 

 

 

      

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thursday, 29 October 2015

Recollections of Amsterdam, 1979

My 25-year-old son has recently returned from a 4-day break in Amsterdam with his girlfriend who arranged the visit as a surprise for his birthday. No doubt the two of them will have absorbed the culture on offer within the Dutch capital: the exquisite art on display in the Van Gogh Museum; a sombre trudge around Anne Frank House where eight Jewish people tried, unsuccessfully, to evade Hitler’s evil clutches; and the charm of the canal network that meanders around the city.  
 
Their trip to Amsterdam rekindled memories of my only visit there in 1979, as a twenty-one-year old. Accompanied by my best mate, Alwyn, my patchy recall of our long weekend is rather different and comprises some less refined moments, as two testosterone-drenched, unattached young men experienced what was then the sex-and-drugs capital of Europe.

The passage of 36 years has, inevitably, lessened the clarity of my recollections. Also, the fact that Alwyn and I lived the whole experience in a drunken haze further compromises the reliability of my memories. Nonetheless, here are some of the more salient snapshots:

  1. Attending a live sex show where the lady, kneeling on all fours, appeared bored and unforgiving while the poor bloke thrusting at her rear struggled to sustain an erection.
  2. Arriving back at our economy accommodation – the Magic Inn – at 4.00 am to find a bearded tramp in a stained raincoat asleep on my bed. Having lost the power of speech due to imbibing copious quantities of Heineken, I fumbled my way back to reception and tried, using a combination of grunts and hand signals, to explain to the young girl behind the desk about my unwanted room-mate. She sped upstairs and, seconds later, I heard her scream, ‘Dirck! How many times do I have to tell you – get the fuck out of here!’
  3. A 230-pound pimp in a three-piece pinstripe suit and tie encouraging us not to linger too long gawping at the red-light ladies in the windows. If I recall, his exact words were, ‘Move along or I’ll cut you into little pieces’.
  4. Participating – fully – in an ‘all-day booze cruise’ along the canals and, by the evening, engaging in some communal on-board sexual groping. I have little recollection of the nature of my playmates; I just hope they were human!
  5. Lounging in a city-centre café surrounded by hairy, sandal-clad hippies, all of whom were smoking reefers. As a lifelong non-smoker – not even tobacco – I did not join in, but recall the sweet, sickly smell that clung to me. In the aftermath, I suddenly realised that Alwyn was an alien who had been sent to planet earth on a mission to murder me.   

But, alas, standards have slipped. It is such a pity that, unlike their parents, the young adults of today lack awareness of the finer things in life.  
 
Photo courtesy of scottchan at FreeDigitalPhotos.net