I had a refreshing encounter with a plumber dude this morning.
Refreshing because (a) he was amenable to doing some work without the sharp intake of breath which normally accompanies a contractor’s commencement of laborious activity but mostly because (b) he whipped out an iPhone which quite frankly looked like it had been used to detonate a landmine.
The screen was cracked and fissured so much that activating any of the apps must have felt akin to caressing Bernard Cribbins’ whiskery jowls. There were paint spatters. There were oily skid marks. There were questionable potholes that may or may not have been caused by high impacts on the quantum scale. Of course, the allusion to Bernard Cribbins breaks down completely at this point.
It was a well used, possibly well loved, definitely not well looked after device.
And that pleased me.
It pleased me because the thought occurred that too often these days we lavish such love and status onto our electronic gadgetry that the merest hairline scratch on a touchscreen, the merest infinitesimal microdot of grit under a plasticoating and we have to head straight out to the vendor to buy a new one. A brand new one because the old one has now been sullied and besmirched. Part of the joy of having it and showing it off is showing it off in prime brand spanking new condition. The tiniest chip will render it second-rate and give it the appearance of being second-hand and, worse still, make it appear as if the device is nose-diving already off the cliff of contemporality and pitching itself useless-face first into the pit of obsolescence.
It was plain that what mattered to the plumber chappy was not the appearance of the device and, therefore not the status the device could confer onto him... but that the device still worked. It was functional. The touchscreen still worked. He could make still calls. Access his apps. Troll on Twitter. Download dodgy films from the internet.
In his own small way he was doing his bit for the environment (if not for the economy). He was, if not mending and making do, then at the very least just making do.
And this to me seems a good way to go. How many of us as we pass through life cast sneering glances and sneerier comments towards battered vehicles we see out and about on the roads? Battered computers being used? Battered bags carried around? Battered clothes being worn?
If they still work and are fit for purpose we should use them. They’ve gobbled up God knows how many of Earth’s resources just by being made. Let’s get our money’s worth before we buy yet more gadgetry and add to the resource debt that is currently mounting up against us.
Let’s use things up and wear them out. It is the highest honour we can afford anything that we create. To use a tool until it cannot be used anymore.
To this end then, despite the holes in the back of my underpants I am going to continue to wash and wear them. The front bit is fine. The hammock effect is uncompromised. I’m going to maintain their functional status for the long haul.
We shall go on together until the end. Or at least until my dangly bits go into freefall.
And I defy any of you to tell me I’m wrong.
Showing posts with label underpants. Show all posts
Showing posts with label underpants. Show all posts
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Wednesday, February 09, 2011
More Arse Than You Can Shake A Pink Stick At
Take last week. I’m going about my duties. An undesirable has entered my workplace despite being banned from the building. It falls to me to approach this ne’er-do-well and remind him that his bodily functions and the building wherein I work are not meant to meet. There are reports he has gone into the Gents’ toilets. I go in. There’s no sign of him. I check the Baby Change facilities and find Mr ASBO with his back to me, his trousers and boxers slumped around his ankles like Jayne Torville around Christopher Dean’s ice skates, his arse hanging out like something unspeakable in a Turkish butcher’s shop window and his gooseberries in the sink being washed with the hand soap.
It ain’t a pretty sight.
It’s one arse too many.
I asked him to leave. He got mouthy and shirty (after he hastily got trousery) but his previous nekkidness had one positive effect: it is impossible to feel cowed by someone when you have seen their hairy bum cheeks.
And then take last night. I’m walking home from college after another Sign Language class. I pass the park. I hear rowdy male singing coming from the bandstand. “Here we go, here we go, here we go-o...” Oh good, I think to myself, drunken footballers... Though I was not aware there was a match on tonight. I can make out about 15 figures prancing about in the gloom.
And then one of them makes a dash my way. And... Oh God... he is wearing nothing but his socks. He is stark staring bollocknekkid. His gennies are flopping about like one half of a broken deely-bopper. Thankfully as he nears me he is distracted by the bright lights of the pretty cars that are rushing by. He leaps out into the road and begins to ‘air-thrust” at the passing motorists. I half expect the voice of Mr Punch to emerge from his arse saying, “That’s the way to do it!” I’m holding my breath at this point because let’s be honest, erectile tissue + sheet metal travelling at 40mph = airborne ketchup. The result of a collision isn’t going to be successful insemination.
But then Mr Car-Lover changes tactics and begins to race up the road, chasing one of the cars. My last view of him is his buttocks grinding at speed and diminishing in size as his pink fleshy form blurs into the red tail lights of the car in front of him.
Now, I don’t know about you but that is too much male naked arse for a dyed-in-the-wool hetero like me to take in one week. I’m fine with homosexuality but I take no pleasure, sexual or aesthetic, in being presented with the jelly-like realities of the masculine buttock. It don’t float my boat. So what the hell is Life trying to tell me?
As near as I can figure it, I think it’s telling me that it is time for more totty on this here blog. Female totty. Rounded, smooth, female totty. Hence the picture above. I’m not just being as arsehole, honest. The Universe made me do it. I am merely answering the call. Restoring the balance. Ensuring there is no gender bias.
After all, one buttock deserves another. It’s Nature’s way.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Wanna Buy A Rolex?
So inflation is up. The cost of living is up. Mortgages and lending rates will undoubtedly go up. The Tories are up to their usual.
The shit is going down.
And it occurred to me that, living right up to the financial wire as I already am, I’d better come up with some sterling (geddit?) ideas to bring some more much needed money into the household (before it goes straight back out again and into the pockets of all the fat, avaricious bankers in the big cities).
I need to become a mover and a shaker. A wheeler and a dealer. Possibly a stealer. Sale of the effing century, mate. So I’ve been racking my brain for dodgy scams that have served mankind well over the previous century to see if I can resurrect them for my own ends.
Idea 1) The used panties scam. I seem to recall in the latter part of the 80’s and early 90’s certain periodicals ran adverts where cotton intolerant ladies offered their used panties for sale to men who liked to entangle their fingers in warm gusset whilst directing high powered business meetings. My idea is to offer the same but with a twist. Used Y-fronts for high flying female execs who like to have their carefully painted fingernails irrevocably glued to recently laid skid marks while finding their jacket pockets exude the unmistakable odour of 3 day old urine. I can offer three different styles: grey and bobbly, leopard print and, for those women with a sense of humour, Bugs Bunny “What’s Up Doc?” underpants. It’s bound to be a smash hit so get your orders in early, ladies.
Idea 2) I come round with a load of me mates and we gives yer the ol’ blarney, loik, and we points out that yer after needing your patio / drive / cladding re-doing cos it’s showin’ soins of wear and tear and will yer be after lookin’ at those tree roots pushing up yer neighbour’s fence posts? Nasty. Well nasty. Will cost yer an arm and a leg if that lot goes over and kills someone so why not pay us the same and we’ll put it bangs to roights fer yer and anyways we’ve already started, look, so yous already owes us a day’s work not to mention fer materials and me man, Mick, there has ripped the arsehole out of his trousers on your loveseat and they don’t come cheap these days, so if you pays up front we promise we’ll put all the bricks and the windows back into the your living room wall, what d’yer say, have we got a deal there, missy? By the way, mine’s milk and 2 sugars and a shot of whiskey if you’ve got it.
Idea 3) I sell myself to smart and discerning clientele who are clean, well heeled and respectful. I am available for in calls and out calls though need an hour’s notice for the latter. For those who want the “long term partner” experience, I specialize in sarcastic conversation and can act like a real caveman and expect you to pay for everything. For a little extra I can deliberately forget your birthday, stand you up for my mates and blame you for the kid’s bad behaviour, hell, it’s all from your side of the family anyway. I would like to point out that any monies paid are purely for my time and company and anything else that occurs is purely between 2 consenting adults. If you want me to sit for an hour and be nagged at please tell me in advance so I can prepare a suitable hangdog, bored shitless look.
Idea 4) I buy some land cheap in an old quarry and make plans to build a Christmas theme park. I buy a load of polystyrene to make fake snow, hire in Warwick Davis to play an elf and drag some bum in off the street to play Santa. Who’s gonna know? I can offer reindeer rides to the kids with the proviso that you have to bring your own reindeer and if you moan that Santa doesn’t seem very festive well it’s because he’s bloody knackered after delivering presents to the whole world on Christmas Eve, give the guy a break, and by the way that isn’t blood in our reindeer burgers it’s tomato ketchup but if you want to write and complain about it please do so care of my totally kosher business address in Spain. Sucker!
Idea 5) I sell both my kidneys, my liver, my pancreas, my heart and lungs, my skin, my eyes, my blood, in fact everything but my bloody spleen just to make ends meet and keep the roof over my children’s heads and the bailiff’s from the door, are you happy now, Cameron, you soapy-faced lightweight, or do you want my sweat and my tears as well?
Any other ideas for fundraising activities will be gratefully received. Thank you for your time.
The shit is going down.
And it occurred to me that, living right up to the financial wire as I already am, I’d better come up with some sterling (geddit?) ideas to bring some more much needed money into the household (before it goes straight back out again and into the pockets of all the fat, avaricious bankers in the big cities).
I need to become a mover and a shaker. A wheeler and a dealer. Possibly a stealer. Sale of the effing century, mate. So I’ve been racking my brain for dodgy scams that have served mankind well over the previous century to see if I can resurrect them for my own ends.
Idea 1) The used panties scam. I seem to recall in the latter part of the 80’s and early 90’s certain periodicals ran adverts where cotton intolerant ladies offered their used panties for sale to men who liked to entangle their fingers in warm gusset whilst directing high powered business meetings. My idea is to offer the same but with a twist. Used Y-fronts for high flying female execs who like to have their carefully painted fingernails irrevocably glued to recently laid skid marks while finding their jacket pockets exude the unmistakable odour of 3 day old urine. I can offer three different styles: grey and bobbly, leopard print and, for those women with a sense of humour, Bugs Bunny “What’s Up Doc?” underpants. It’s bound to be a smash hit so get your orders in early, ladies.
Idea 2) I come round with a load of me mates and we gives yer the ol’ blarney, loik, and we points out that yer after needing your patio / drive / cladding re-doing cos it’s showin’ soins of wear and tear and will yer be after lookin’ at those tree roots pushing up yer neighbour’s fence posts? Nasty. Well nasty. Will cost yer an arm and a leg if that lot goes over and kills someone so why not pay us the same and we’ll put it bangs to roights fer yer and anyways we’ve already started, look, so yous already owes us a day’s work not to mention fer materials and me man, Mick, there has ripped the arsehole out of his trousers on your loveseat and they don’t come cheap these days, so if you pays up front we promise we’ll put all the bricks and the windows back into the your living room wall, what d’yer say, have we got a deal there, missy? By the way, mine’s milk and 2 sugars and a shot of whiskey if you’ve got it.
Idea 3) I sell myself to smart and discerning clientele who are clean, well heeled and respectful. I am available for in calls and out calls though need an hour’s notice for the latter. For those who want the “long term partner” experience, I specialize in sarcastic conversation and can act like a real caveman and expect you to pay for everything. For a little extra I can deliberately forget your birthday, stand you up for my mates and blame you for the kid’s bad behaviour, hell, it’s all from your side of the family anyway. I would like to point out that any monies paid are purely for my time and company and anything else that occurs is purely between 2 consenting adults. If you want me to sit for an hour and be nagged at please tell me in advance so I can prepare a suitable hangdog, bored shitless look.
Idea 4) I buy some land cheap in an old quarry and make plans to build a Christmas theme park. I buy a load of polystyrene to make fake snow, hire in Warwick Davis to play an elf and drag some bum in off the street to play Santa. Who’s gonna know? I can offer reindeer rides to the kids with the proviso that you have to bring your own reindeer and if you moan that Santa doesn’t seem very festive well it’s because he’s bloody knackered after delivering presents to the whole world on Christmas Eve, give the guy a break, and by the way that isn’t blood in our reindeer burgers it’s tomato ketchup but if you want to write and complain about it please do so care of my totally kosher business address in Spain. Sucker!
Idea 5) I sell both my kidneys, my liver, my pancreas, my heart and lungs, my skin, my eyes, my blood, in fact everything but my bloody spleen just to make ends meet and keep the roof over my children’s heads and the bailiff’s from the door, are you happy now, Cameron, you soapy-faced lightweight, or do you want my sweat and my tears as well?
Any other ideas for fundraising activities will be gratefully received. Thank you for your time.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
The Mechanics Of Profanity
I perform a daily external patrol around my place of work pretty much as soon as I arrive on site each morning, armed not with a telescopic baton, pepper spray or a taser but with a bin bag and the keys to the bin store.
You see, I’m not on the lookout for armed blaggers or tooled up psychopaths but for litter louts and damned defacers. Or rather, I’m on the lookout for their multifarious droppings.
This is just one of the many uplifting and status elevating jobs that I perform regularly for my employers.
On a good morning my rounds will net nothing more than a couple of empty cans of Special Brew and an empty cigarette packet (usually Marlboro). Though on occasion these items are augmented inextricably by the presence of a pair of ladies shoes, the cellophane wrapping from an Asda T-shirt (which will be missing – presumably on the purchaser’s / shoplifter’s back) and an odd collection of serviettes still folded up into neat little squares.
Plainly the drunks and tramps around the Leamington Spa area have standards. Not necessarily high standards but standards none the less.
On a bad morning I will encounter what is known in the trade as “a man turd”.
Now, this is not to be confused with a dog turd.
A dog turd is bad enough. I don’t need to describe one to you because you’ve all seen one / walked through one. They’re disgusting and unwelcome in the extreme but have one small positive; one saving grace. The odour of a dog turd (unless stepped into and thus reactivated) is relatively short-lived. A quick slide action with a shovel and they can quite successfully be scraped up off the ground and catapulted into nearby undergrowth without too much post-contact shovel cleaning required. If you’re really lucky the turd will already have turned quite crusty and will barely have left a mark on your spade of choice. Job done (no pun intended, etc).
None of this is ever true of a man turd.
Now, you can tell a man turd by the size and smell.
They smell bad.
And they smell bad forever.
So bad in fact that even a passing hyena would gag.
And they take a hell of a long time to go crusty. In fact they retain a Christmas cake moistness of such magnitude that they may one day be identified as reliable sources of H2O in a post atomic holocaust world.
If you’re lucky the “bricklayer” will possess a healthy digestive system and will deposit a single neat sausage that can be scraped up quite cleanly and lobbed somewhere out of sight and out of mind. If you’re unlucky, however, the owner will have the digestive system of a cat on high strength worming tablets and will leave matter that can be variously described as “a broken muffin”, “a Spanish omelette” or, worst of all, “a walnut whip”.
And such matter will defy any and every attempt at efficient shovelling. In fact using a shovel is just a big no-no. You’ll just get the offending matter spread over a wider surface area and the shovel itself will be transformed into a chemical weapon so effective it would make a muck-spreader vomit.
What is needed is an industrial strength hose and a bio-suit.
I was faced with one of these this morning.
Now, I’ve become something of a stoic when confronted with these still-warm examples of ethno-botany but a couple of niggling questions always buzz around the back of my head (like the flies) every time I encounter one.
The mechanics of producing such an offering... I mean, how exactly does someone go about it?
The pulling down (or up) of clothing and the squatting down I can just about envision (though try not to)... but... cleaning yourself up afterwards...? What happens there, eh?
Do these people come pre-prepared with toilet paper or freshly bought copies of The Big Issue? If they do this suggests something premeditated about their whole activity and therefore a sickness of the mind.
Or are such droppings evidence of people genuinely caught short... a case of the poo-train is coming and the brakes they ain’t a-working?
What happens then? Surely you don’t just pull up your kecks and walk daintily home, ignoring the uncomfortable localized heat and the feeling of greasy skid marks working themselves deeper into the gusset of your Y-fronts?
You must surely make some attempt to clean yourself up, to scrape off the worst?
But with what or on what?
Nearby foliage? The wall of a building? The pavement itself?
A sleeping tramp?
My mind boggles.
Answers on a piece of toilet paper to the usual address please...
You see, I’m not on the lookout for armed blaggers or tooled up psychopaths but for litter louts and damned defacers. Or rather, I’m on the lookout for their multifarious droppings.
This is just one of the many uplifting and status elevating jobs that I perform regularly for my employers.
On a good morning my rounds will net nothing more than a couple of empty cans of Special Brew and an empty cigarette packet (usually Marlboro). Though on occasion these items are augmented inextricably by the presence of a pair of ladies shoes, the cellophane wrapping from an Asda T-shirt (which will be missing – presumably on the purchaser’s / shoplifter’s back) and an odd collection of serviettes still folded up into neat little squares.
Plainly the drunks and tramps around the Leamington Spa area have standards. Not necessarily high standards but standards none the less.
On a bad morning I will encounter what is known in the trade as “a man turd”.
Now, this is not to be confused with a dog turd.
A dog turd is bad enough. I don’t need to describe one to you because you’ve all seen one / walked through one. They’re disgusting and unwelcome in the extreme but have one small positive; one saving grace. The odour of a dog turd (unless stepped into and thus reactivated) is relatively short-lived. A quick slide action with a shovel and they can quite successfully be scraped up off the ground and catapulted into nearby undergrowth without too much post-contact shovel cleaning required. If you’re really lucky the turd will already have turned quite crusty and will barely have left a mark on your spade of choice. Job done (no pun intended, etc).
None of this is ever true of a man turd.
Now, you can tell a man turd by the size and smell.
They smell bad.
And they smell bad forever.
So bad in fact that even a passing hyena would gag.
And they take a hell of a long time to go crusty. In fact they retain a Christmas cake moistness of such magnitude that they may one day be identified as reliable sources of H2O in a post atomic holocaust world.
If you’re lucky the “bricklayer” will possess a healthy digestive system and will deposit a single neat sausage that can be scraped up quite cleanly and lobbed somewhere out of sight and out of mind. If you’re unlucky, however, the owner will have the digestive system of a cat on high strength worming tablets and will leave matter that can be variously described as “a broken muffin”, “a Spanish omelette” or, worst of all, “a walnut whip”.
And such matter will defy any and every attempt at efficient shovelling. In fact using a shovel is just a big no-no. You’ll just get the offending matter spread over a wider surface area and the shovel itself will be transformed into a chemical weapon so effective it would make a muck-spreader vomit.
What is needed is an industrial strength hose and a bio-suit.
I was faced with one of these this morning.
Now, I’ve become something of a stoic when confronted with these still-warm examples of ethno-botany but a couple of niggling questions always buzz around the back of my head (like the flies) every time I encounter one.
The mechanics of producing such an offering... I mean, how exactly does someone go about it?
The pulling down (or up) of clothing and the squatting down I can just about envision (though try not to)... but... cleaning yourself up afterwards...? What happens there, eh?
Do these people come pre-prepared with toilet paper or freshly bought copies of The Big Issue? If they do this suggests something premeditated about their whole activity and therefore a sickness of the mind.
Or are such droppings evidence of people genuinely caught short... a case of the poo-train is coming and the brakes they ain’t a-working?
What happens then? Surely you don’t just pull up your kecks and walk daintily home, ignoring the uncomfortable localized heat and the feeling of greasy skid marks working themselves deeper into the gusset of your Y-fronts?
You must surely make some attempt to clean yourself up, to scrape off the worst?
But with what or on what?
Nearby foliage? The wall of a building? The pavement itself?
A sleeping tramp?
My mind boggles.
Answers on a piece of toilet paper to the usual address please...
Monday, February 16, 2009
What Shall We Do With A Drunken Sailor?
When a person has very few pleasures in life do you have a right to deny them those few in order to preserve their health?
Years ago I wouldn’t have hesitated with my answer and would have no doubt spouted a load of guff about free will, choices, self autonomy and a load of other textbook slogan-making twaddle.
Now I’m not so sure.
My granddad, God bless ‘im, has a pretty meagre existence in terms of self fulfilment. He’s 70% blind, lonely as hell since my gran died 4 years ago and my aunt (his youngest daughter) died last year. He’s going deaf and is becoming rather unsteady on his feet.
As far as worthwhile activities go there is precious little he can do to fill his days except listen to the radio full blast, talk to his various visitors, eat and drink.
Drinking as a pleasure would be fine if his beverage of choice was a nice cup of Earl Grey. Sadly, being an ex-Navy man, his preferred tipple is rum.
And the stronger the better.
In the past this hasn’t been a problem as he’s always been responsible / careful / respectful. Now, however, with little else to live for, I suspect, and little else to occupy his days he’d been hitting the bottle rather hard.
The family has grumbled but lived with it for the last few years and bar a few tellings off and a flurry of nags when he’s got himself particularly sizzled we’ve let him get on with it with the proviso that he doesn’t overdo it. I mean at his age he hardly needs to worry about drinking himself to death, does he?
However, yesterday he had to activate his emergency helpline button as he’d got himself so drunk he’d slid out of his chair and onto the floor and couldn’t get back up again.
It would be almost comical except that an ambulance man had to attend and spend a great deal of time sorting him out.
Thankfully all was well.
He’s ok. He’s fine. He’s embarrassed and a little chagrined after getting the sharp end of my mother’s tongue but no lasting damage has been done.
Or has it?
The problem is that even without the thought that it could have been so much worse an ambulance man had had to devote time and energy to a “non emergency call out” when he no doubt could have been better employed elsewhere.
Which isn’t to say I don’t think my granddad is worth it because he most definitely is.
But this cannot go on.
And I don’t think getting trollied makes him particularly happy anyway as he tends to get maudlin drunk as opposed to waving-his-pants-in-the-air-happy-as-larry drunk. He might not agree but he’s a lot brighter when he hasn’t got a couple of pints of Captain Morgan sloshing around his central nervous system.
My mother agrees and, being the policeman of the relationship (as indeed all mothers are), she’s going to advise him and the loyal network of family and friends that support him that rum, if it ever appears on his shopping list again, will be dispensed and distributed in much smaller volumes in future.
It is the only thing to do. It is the right thing to do.
But I can’t help feeling a tad uncomfortable and inappropriately authoritarian about it. What right do we have – even to preserve his health – when he has so little else in life that he enjoys?
Back to that old chestnut again.
What shall we do with a drunken sailor?
What shall we do with a drunken sailor?
What shall we do with a drunken sailor?
Early in the morning!
Put him in the hold with the Captain's daughter,
Put him in the hold with the Captain's daughter,
Put him in the hold with the Captain's daughter,
Early in the morning!
Hmm. I tell you now, that he’d bloody love...
Years ago I wouldn’t have hesitated with my answer and would have no doubt spouted a load of guff about free will, choices, self autonomy and a load of other textbook slogan-making twaddle.
Now I’m not so sure.
My granddad, God bless ‘im, has a pretty meagre existence in terms of self fulfilment. He’s 70% blind, lonely as hell since my gran died 4 years ago and my aunt (his youngest daughter) died last year. He’s going deaf and is becoming rather unsteady on his feet.
As far as worthwhile activities go there is precious little he can do to fill his days except listen to the radio full blast, talk to his various visitors, eat and drink.
Drinking as a pleasure would be fine if his beverage of choice was a nice cup of Earl Grey. Sadly, being an ex-Navy man, his preferred tipple is rum.
And the stronger the better.
In the past this hasn’t been a problem as he’s always been responsible / careful / respectful. Now, however, with little else to live for, I suspect, and little else to occupy his days he’d been hitting the bottle rather hard.
The family has grumbled but lived with it for the last few years and bar a few tellings off and a flurry of nags when he’s got himself particularly sizzled we’ve let him get on with it with the proviso that he doesn’t overdo it. I mean at his age he hardly needs to worry about drinking himself to death, does he?
However, yesterday he had to activate his emergency helpline button as he’d got himself so drunk he’d slid out of his chair and onto the floor and couldn’t get back up again.
It would be almost comical except that an ambulance man had to attend and spend a great deal of time sorting him out.
Thankfully all was well.
He’s ok. He’s fine. He’s embarrassed and a little chagrined after getting the sharp end of my mother’s tongue but no lasting damage has been done.
Or has it?
The problem is that even without the thought that it could have been so much worse an ambulance man had had to devote time and energy to a “non emergency call out” when he no doubt could have been better employed elsewhere.
Which isn’t to say I don’t think my granddad is worth it because he most definitely is.
But this cannot go on.
And I don’t think getting trollied makes him particularly happy anyway as he tends to get maudlin drunk as opposed to waving-his-pants-in-the-air-happy-as-larry drunk. He might not agree but he’s a lot brighter when he hasn’t got a couple of pints of Captain Morgan sloshing around his central nervous system.
My mother agrees and, being the policeman of the relationship (as indeed all mothers are), she’s going to advise him and the loyal network of family and friends that support him that rum, if it ever appears on his shopping list again, will be dispensed and distributed in much smaller volumes in future.
It is the only thing to do. It is the right thing to do.
But I can’t help feeling a tad uncomfortable and inappropriately authoritarian about it. What right do we have – even to preserve his health – when he has so little else in life that he enjoys?
Back to that old chestnut again.
What shall we do with a drunken sailor?
What shall we do with a drunken sailor?
What shall we do with a drunken sailor?
Early in the morning!
Put him in the hold with the Captain's daughter,
Put him in the hold with the Captain's daughter,
Put him in the hold with the Captain's daughter,
Early in the morning!
Hmm. I tell you now, that he’d bloody love...
Monday, January 28, 2008
The Grundies
It could be the pall of fog that has descended over the Midlands. It could be the cold that has swelled up in my respiratory passages like a water filled balloon. It could even just be the time of year...
But I feel like pants this morning.
And not nice, saucily exotic pants either but dull, off-white, verging on grey pants with a bobbly gusset.
In the great Pantheon of the Pant Gods, I have been transfigured by the Pant God of Death and Depression.
My elasticised waist is ropey and loose. I’ve gone horribly baggy around the back. The fabric around the front is wearing unpleasantly thin. And the less said about the skid-marks on the left inside leg the better.
I need a makeover but boxers and G-strings just aren’t my style.
I’d go commando but I have strong pacifist leanings.
Sports briefs on someone as naturally sedentary as myself just wouldn’t wash.
And as for fig leaves... well, they bring me out in a rash.
Geez. Is there really no other alternative but ladies underwear?
Aren’t I depressed enough without having to shop at Ann Summers for myself...?
But I feel like pants this morning.
And not nice, saucily exotic pants either but dull, off-white, verging on grey pants with a bobbly gusset.
In the great Pantheon of the Pant Gods, I have been transfigured by the Pant God of Death and Depression.
My elasticised waist is ropey and loose. I’ve gone horribly baggy around the back. The fabric around the front is wearing unpleasantly thin. And the less said about the skid-marks on the left inside leg the better.
I need a makeover but boxers and G-strings just aren’t my style.
I’d go commando but I have strong pacifist leanings.
Sports briefs on someone as naturally sedentary as myself just wouldn’t wash.
And as for fig leaves... well, they bring me out in a rash.
Geez. Is there really no other alternative but ladies underwear?
Aren’t I depressed enough without having to shop at Ann Summers for myself...?
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Pants
However, I bet I’m feeling a lot better than dopey dwarf, Leo Sayer, who comically slit the throat of his own already poorly career yesterday (surely a case of euthanasia?) by evacuating himself, little poo stylee, from the Big Brother house in high dudgeon all because BB refused to supply him with a clean pair of underpants.
Leo it seems refused to wash his own underpants on camera because it was “degrading”.
Hmm. It’s only degrading, Leo, if your grundies are horrifically spattered with turd-stains, haemorrhoid cream or spunk.
Or all three, of course.
Hmm. Is there anything you wish to come clean about, Mr Sayer?
Apparently not.
Not on camera anyway…
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