Porky Porn

I was looking at my blog stats a few days ago. It is a short look as there ain’t that many people that want to read my demented ramblings. Nonetheless, I trip onto the list of most used search terms that bring people to my blog and you’ll never guess what they are so I’ll tell you: Naked Men In The Shower, and about twenty different iterations thereof. The rest of the terms are so few they are lumped into an uncategorised group called General or somesuch.

I knew when I entitled a post Naked Men In The Shower, as a rather tongue in cheek poke at the high level of sexual use of the internet, that it may generate a little more mistaken interest . I didn’t realise that I had unwittingly plumbed such a vein of special interest. So hi ho, t’internet is a funny ‘ole thing, which in itself isn’t a shocker. For my innocent and pure mind I was surprised, still, at the level of specialisms that are catered for. Puts me in mind of a quote about purity that I learnt from MFTS. “I’m like Snow White, but I drifted.”

Let me relate a little story that happened to a friend. Really, it did happen to a friend. Gary runs a very funny and rather infrequently updated blog called How Do In Bialskishire, about life and goings on in his small rural Lancashire village. He has throttled right back as the deeper he gets into village life the harder it is to comment as an outsider. Being a connected sort of fellow as well as being a farmer on a smallholding a friend shot a mobile phone video of him attempting to ride this rather humungous sow.

Gary suddenly received an inexplicably high number of hits – 5k+ – on this silly little video he had posted for the amusement of some friends. A bit of digging into it and he made a startling discovery. It was hot, he was a shirtless farmboy and apparently there is a specialist interest in, and I quote, “Sitting Down”. So quite innocently Gary and his sow became  a feature video on a gay porn fetish site. Who’da thunk it?

It rather trumps dudes in the shower.

Just Snoozin’

The human brain is an amazing instrument. More than once my brain has dug me out of trouble with a lightning quick, subconsciously driven reaction that I can only process through regular cognitive channels after the event. I then reflect on my inbuilt saviour and am mightily impressed.

During a phone call with my brother where we whiled away  30 min or so talking shit and other general sibling smack talk – about mistresses for some reason –  I had a flash of a story to write about. Generally I am fond of a bit of embellishment for the sake of the crowd, and my ego. Today the lily requires very little gilding.

When 18 I dropped out of a very lackadaisical attempt at the first year of Uni (one of these now converted to University status Community Colleges, much the same as an old Polytechnic in the UK. You know the type; used to be an abandoned petrol station and now it’s a University as everyone deserves a degree in Meeja Studies) to go and work at Lake Louise. Skiing, girls, booze and an 18y old male that is vaguely sporty and very horny in a province where it is legal to drink. What could possibly go wrong?

One of my most memorable events was when I found that I was liaising – consecutively I might add but sadly not concurrently – with two girls who happened to be roommates. One was called Michelle, who was the primary object of my attentions and the other called Susan , a more peripheral but willing young lady if I recall correctly.

Nonetheless, I discarded the hazy rose-tinted specs relating to my astonishing studliness – read insatiable 18y old horniness – and recalled the following great brain save.

I have a fairly well off Uncle in Calgary so, with the offer of the guest bed in a palatial house, I invited the young Michelle to spend a night there with me and get away from the terribly insular community that is the workers at the resort. She readily agreed and we did whatever and repaired, eventually, in a fully relaxed state to our bed. Being horny 18y old’s – yes, I don’t want to belabour the point too much, but sex and skiing were pretty much all we thought about – we undertook what came naturally. Lying there exhausted, post vigorous Ugandan discussion’s, and still a bit pissed, I was drifting in and out of sleep with Michelle snuggled beside me. In my blissfully contented haze I apparently uttered the word “Susan”.

Well bugger me, I had no idea a woman can go from a post-coital glow to rabid frothing monster quite so fast. Apparently they can. Michelle was sat upright jabbing her finger at me – I think she may have suspected as I went to great lengths not to see them in the same space as I was sure one, other or both would twig – and accused me of sleeping with Susan behind her back. Which was true.

Cue my self-preservation brain seeing the need to save it’s owner from what had all the hallmarks of a kicking. From a girl. Quick as a flash and with no concious effort I adopted a puzzled yet pained face and remarked in as innocent a sounding voice as possible, “Susan, Susan, her? Are you mad? I said I was snoozin, just snoozin’ ” It worked as she immediately softened and apologised for being jealous.

Much as the opportunity was there for some good ‘ole reverse guilting, I didn’t.

I am far too much of a gentleman to do something like that.

You Know When You Know

In a totally out of character move for me I actually gave this post some joined up thinking before I put finger to keys. At least 30 minutes. Really; most posts are just stream of consciousness outpourings of opinion, so expressed in percentage terms it is a hell of a difference.

For the past 3 or so years I have been going back and forth with the founder of a small process improvement management consultancy. It’s never been the right time for some legitimate reasons. Now it is right for him and so wrong for me. It’s flattering to be wanted, I guess.

As dry as this topic sounds it was something I gave a lot of thought to when I had Only Organic. It was not about selling veg it was all about fulfilment of a perishable product. Screw it up and you’ve spent money. Process improvement, get it right and you save money. The role we have been discussing is also interesting because it plays to my strengths of enthusiasm for using technology and business development.

<<- as a total aside, I am sitting in a nice cafe in Oxford with good WiFi, and at the table beside me are two people that are struggling to have a conversation. Obviously not boyfriend and girlfriend and he is less interested that she is. It is alternately fascinating and annoying and great fodder to write about. She has a nasty antipodean grate which was hard to place until the mention of going home to live in Wellington. Moaning about the price of everything, the weather, the inconveniences etc etc. As hard as I am trying not to earwig, which is helped by her being partially unintelligible as her voice makes a sharp upturn at the end of every sentence and pens are pins etc etc, I have gathered that she went to London, didn’t like it but spent £100 seeing two ghastly sounding musicals. She then shared with the poor long-suffering chap that she was tempted to look inside the Savoy and see how the other half live etc etc… I fought back the urge to explain that it would have been far more enjoyable to spend her £100 on a decent lunch at the Savoy rather than on  The Lion King etc… There is a strong urge to lean over, give her a tenner and invite her to fuck off home where it is so wonderful. Since I am being a bitch then, in the interests of completeness, she has a moustache that I’d be proud of. Really, I can’t look over as I will just be staring at the facial furniture. I know, I am going straight to hell for being an insensitive prick. I have come to terms with that long ago. ->>

I drove home from the meeting with the MD and the FD with the agreement to start in July. I have decided to write to Peter – the MD – as I just cannot  pass the opportunity to do this degree. Chance of a life time and all that. People keep asking me what i’ll do with a History degree. The truth is that I have no idea. What I do know is that I’ll go down unknown avenues and meet interesting people. From that I am sure opportunity will present itself.

In the meantime I get on well with the lads at the local bike shop to the point where for a couple of pack of Hob-Nobs – why does this sound like the start of Jimmy Savile style tale? – I can use the workshop and store my bike there. They are around the corner from my new gaffe in Jericho and an ideal job would be working there. I have shared this with the owner and he didn’t fall about laughing. What a great job to dovetail around being a stoodent. I must drop by soon, eat biccies, drink tea and try again to be hired…

PS: being on a computer with several tabs open I skipped across to an Indy interview with the Rev. Richard Coles. He is a bit of a meeja vicar and made a v. pithy remark to the reporter that I think fairly sums up this blog: “We frequently sail perilously close to the banal…”

Right To Life or Smother At Birth? You Decide.

I know I should believe we all have an equal right to life. My bleeding heart liberal (read: educated) parents raised me so. And I actually do believe it. However, my faith is being tested when I see this muppet from the dancing mouth-breathing racists that are the English Disco League, or as you may know them, the EDL. Watch him and try to maintain your feelings of equality.

Let’s be charitable and assume that there are a few remaining brain cells that aren’t addled by strong weed and many, many, cans of wife beater and possibly a bit of crack, just saying. My money is not on him finishing school. I appreciate that should he have done so a First from Oxbridge would not be likely to grace the wall of his state funded housing. Nonetheless, I’ll bet there was some capacity for learning in there at some point and possibly he could have been taught a teensy weensy bit of joined up thinking, even if it to recognise his limits and avoid talking to the press.

The scary thing is that despite being from the paddling depth end of the gene pool he may breed at some point, if not already. It makes me ashamed to share DNA with him. I so dearly, dearly hope that he is made to see the Muslamic benefits/jobcentre employees from now on. They can talk in two-syllable words and double digit numbers whilst keeping one sweaty palm wrapped around their ray-gun hidden under the desk. That’d learn him.

Joke Of The Day

The SAS, the Parachute Regiment and the Police decide to go on a survival weekend together to see who comes out on top.

After some basic exercises the trainer tells them that their next objective is to go down into the woods and catch a rabbit, returning with it ready to skin and cook.

Night falls…

First up – the SAS. They don infra-red goggles, drop to the ground and crawl into the woods in formation. Absolute silence for 5 minutes, followed by the unmistakable muffled “phut-phut” of their trademark silenced “double-tap”. They emerge with a large rabbit shot cleanly between the eyes.

“Excellent!” remarks the trainer.

Next up – the Para ‘s. They finish their cans of lager, put their Playboy mags away, smear themselves with camouflage cream, fix bayonets and charge down into the woods, screaming at the top of their lungs. For the next hour the woods ring with the sound of rifle and machine-gun fire, hand grenades, mortar bombs and blood curdling war cries. Eventually they emerge, carrying the charred remains of a rabbit.

“A bit messy, but you achieved the aim; well done”, says the trainer.

Lastly, in go the Coppers, walking slowly, hands behind backs whistling Dixon of Dock Green. For the next few hours, the silence is only broken by the occasional crackle of a walkie-talkie “Sierra Lima Whisky Tango Fanta One, suspect headed straight for you…” etc. After what seems an eternity, they emerge escorting a squirrel in handcuffs.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” asks the incredulous trainer, “Take this squirrel back and get me a rabbit like I asked you five hours ago!”

So back they go. Minutes pass. Minutes turn to hours, night drags on and turns to day. The next morning, the trainer and the other teams are awakened by the police, holding the handcuffed squirrel, now covered in bruises, one eye nearly shut.

“Are you taking the piss!!??” asks the now seriously irate trainer.

The police team leader nudges the squirrel, who squeaks:

“Alright, alright… I’m a fucking rabbit!”

Education, Education, Education.

I can’t say I agreed with Tony Blair (Bliar? not sure) over many things but this was one quote I approved of wholeheartedly.

When I was married, my wife and I were discussing the ins and outs of paying for schooling for our daughter. An older friend, the guy who introduced us, related a story about his experiences. After marrying, he and his wife bought an Landrover and drove it from the UK to Australia. What is known as a right proper hard-core trek. In those days driving across the Middle East was possible as the religious bitching was at a relative lull. Not only was it a bold undertaking but the people they met left a lasting impression on them.

When Graham offers advice, you listen. He said that regarding children; you can only give them two things, love and education. That informed our choices re schooling and in getting divorced. Our daughter goes to a great school and she knows that, above all, that she is loved and that her Mummy and Daddy are friends. In all things to do with her we resolved to continue backing each other up so my daughter, H, got a single message. We may have our differences but we talk about and plan around H. As she is on the cusp of turning into a scheming teenager (they are all devious and scheming even if you think butter wouldn’t melt…) she knows that I won’t be sold the “but Mummy said…” story without checking first.

That aside, I got to thinking about my time in the Specials (Police Reserves for you dang foreigners). I was talking w. a mate today who is a full-time officer and we agreed that the  vast majority of police time is spent dealing with a small but significant minority (and most are repeat customers) of the population. What common distinguishing feature is shared by these people?  Most of them are thick, dense, dumb etc etc but I don’t actually believe that. I have always wondered if it was genetic but have decided that it is through lack of formal education. Sure, some of them will never be the brightest coal in the barbecue but I’ll bet they are capable of learning to read and write properly. Some are downright crafty and ingenious in the way they commit crime. In fact, they’d be a proper menace to society if they had basic Maths and English. I once spent 6 hours taking statements from two muppets that were being horrible to one another on Facebook. Neither of them seemed familiar with the concept of Unfriending someone. Gaaarrrgghh.

Amongst this small and select band of idiots, education seems to be actively sneered at and discouraged. Being unencumbered by burdensome basic literary and numeracy skills is something to be proud of. It seems that there needs to be  lessons in  education and the benefits of being educated. In Western society most countries have mechanisms for assisting those without the means to cope. In the UK we refer to the Welfare State and I believe passionately that this is a correct mechanism to have for those that actually require it. However, here comes the but, there needs to be some sort of active disincentive for those that shun the opportunity to learn and then expect to be supported by the state and waste police, doctor, teacher, court time – along with many other resources – as they know their rights. For all their knowledge of their rights there seems to be very few obligations in their mind.

This is a thorny question and much, much smarter people than me have approached it and to date failed to fix it. I believe that, a bit like National Service was obligatory back in the day, then being educated to a minimum standard should also be obligatory. You can just picture the enforcement officers. Imagine getting  stop-checked by a man with suede patches on his elbows and be made to do basic maths and punctuate a sentence or get sent back to school in a big yellow bus. Stop tittering in the back, I know I wouldn’t pass the latter part of the test.

With an education around some of the basics of life the EDL, and many of the Tabloids, would die on their arse. Small minded and ill-informed rhetoric relies on people being too stupid to be able to process the facts and come to their own conclusion. Manipulative people with access to the poorly educated can then move in and control the dumb masses. With a basic education I daresay that many more people would have the intellectual toolkit to laugh at splinter groups and move on or the radical religious whoever is the hating flavour of the month.  That poor bloody innocent soldier was hacked to death by impressionable morons, imho. Allah’s work. My arse. If there was any sort of a God then I reckon he’d frown on that, don’t you?

Going Solo

You are standing in the airstream, grasping the wing strut with white knuckles and are trying to process what it is you are about to do. Namely; let go of a perfectly serviceable aeroplane and trust the folding skills of someone you have never met. The bricking yourself part was done a while ago. The tough bit was choosing to do this. Now, being loudly exhorted by the instructor you let go, spreadeagle as shown and…..well, it was odd. Not scary, no sense of falling just a sensation of being in mid-air and watching the aircraft shrink away from you really quickly. Quiet, suddenly there is a soft jolt, the canopy opens and the sound of the aircraft recedes quickly. After all, it is moving at 100-kts and you are just there in the middle of the sky dangling from a soft round canopy. Minor problem is that when practicing the freefall count and pulling on the dummy D-ring wedged in the webbing you were rather enthusiastic – fear numbed – and grabbed it and tossed it away. Eh, you were supposed to hold onto it to demonstrate your ability to work well under pressure. Fail. That’s a $22 replacement cost and something you assured the instructor that only a fear-stricken idiot would ever do.

I had to stop writing there for a moment and go and look at an accelerated freefall course (AFF to those in the know) in Spain. Definitely a Bucket List thing, but I ain’t doing three months rent in one hit just to abandon a serviceable – you hope – aircraft solo from the word go. In the same way that Brenda must think the world smells of fresh paint then I imagine the folks that are detailed to take a firm grip on you when you jump out semi-solo at 13,000 feet for your first jump think everyone is sweetness and light. FFS, it is them that are giving you a fighting chance. I have seen  a jump that lacked the essential opening of the parachute part – a small but important detail – and they required removal from the LZ in an interesting way. The paramedics shovelled them into bin liners that were then popped in a zip to the top sleeping bag style cover. Nice. Of course you are going to try and be over-pleasant. Even grumpy atheists like me will be puckering up and kissing rings like there is no tomorrow. If they are a believer in the good lord then so am I. Durrrrh.

More to the point – point, keep to the point you say? You’ll be lucky – I am moving into a flat of my own in three weeks. It is the first time in my pretty unsheltered life that I have actually had a place of my own. It feels like skydiving. All calm, the tough bit of the decision is done, and now I am just working on managing the landing. I remember feeling pleased and perplexed the first time I boshed into the ground. Yes, despite all the para-roll practise you just bosh in the first time as the sudden ground rush caught me by surprise. You get up, dust yourself off, look up for the aircraft to remind yourself what you just did and then get the shakes. I expect I’ll stand in the flat, look around and remind myself that I need to book an appointment to have my kidney removed so I can sell it to pay the rent.