Viagra

The two most commenly experienced side effects of viagra are, headaches and flushing.

So you lay in bed looking like a horney lobster saying,

"Not tonight luv, my heads banging."


I heard recently of a married man who tried it out without telling his wife. He's taking her from behind, she suddenly looks back and says, " You're not my husband!"

Michael Caine

'Michael Caine', so called because his accent resembles that of the snake eyed British actor, is your average, 30'ish, nice family man, relatively shy and honest.
Recently he was given the task of driving a flat bed truck , loaded with a seven tonne roll, to the regrinding shop. This involves driving into an air lock designed to stop draughts disturbing the 'process'.
Unfortunatly, Michael isn't familiar with the truck controls and fails to stop, ploughing through the large concertina door at the outer end. The door now resembles a kind of giant, mangled, cat flap.
When word of this hits the tanoy system, I quickly pick up the mic' to quip, but get beaten to it by Max Cadey who assertively mis-quotes,

"You're not supposed to blow the bloody doors off!"

My only vehicle is still in bits in my flooded garage.
My hard drive is 'stuffed'. I usually buy my car parts online. Reliant is no longer in business.
I start back at work at 5.30am Monday. ( 12 hour shifts. )
Public transport isn't an option. ( unless I start off at around 11pm tonight. )
20 miles each way is too far to cycle. ( I did consider it )
As with most other people, money is tight.
I've arranged lifts, but have to sort 'Piggy', my three wheeled car, out as soon as.
There are a few personal things that could be in better shape.

Am I down hearted?

A bit.

I'm an optimist, the glass is always at least 1/2 full. I've got friends to help me out and a previously troublesome deal is starting to bear fruit.

As Arnie said, "I'll be back."

Derek Mayes 1927-2006

The deceased- Local councilor. lay preacher C of E high church. Head Master at school for maladjusted children. A private man of dry wit. He asked for the life support to be switched off in the secure knowledge of his final destination.

The bereaved- My cousin Janet Mayes. Big strong woman with a personality to match. The kind of women who would get everyone to pull through in a prison of war camp. Wonderful host. On a previous occasion, an inspiration to my children, who had never seen the like.

Home of the deceased - Large 5 bedroomed detached. Several acres of well tended gardens. Gravel driveway. Wood panels. Open fires. Corridors as wide as 'A' roads.

The village- Pub. Church. Houses. Roads 1.5 cars wide, no verge, hedgerows form arch overhead. Parking in hedgerows only. All within 30 m of each other.

Church- gnarled auld English, surrounded by gnarled trees, matching tomb stones.

Our hire car- Big fast silver thing, I think it was a Vauxhall Velocoraptor or suchlike.

Navigational system- My sister = Lap of Gods.

arrived with 15 minutes to spare. A piss, quick fag,* Swift half of Stella Artoise and Scotch and water.

Barmaid, "I'd finish up quick if I were you. Cortege is turning into church."

Long service. Sunshine, blue sky, cold breeze for lowering into final resting place.

Computer print out, with mileage, for journey to reception at 'Conservative Club'. Still got lost.

Good spread including fresh piping hot roast potatoes, yum.

Other cousins. Ron, Looks like pre-nose job Ronnie Biggs ( the Great Train robber ), I mentally test the theory that all people called Ron, look this way. Find exceptions, but suspect that a tendency does exist.
Colin, 70 something- Mother, big 'Pools' winner in the 1960's, who bought large boarding house overlooking Torque bay ( the English Riviara ). Colin became an estate agent. Good looking, permanent sun tan. Wind surfer at 60! Still water skies. Fast boats, fast cars, ( wondered if that was his Ferrari I saw on the way in ) Tells me his brother Pete has just been bunjee jumping!
Sweet Terry- Ex Teacher and wine cognecenti. Stopped smoking but overweight and unhealthy looking.

Later back at Janet's house, my sister is telling all about my party piece. Singing a short Tom Lehra song. Luckily the conversation changes before someone suggests I sing it. It is a love song about the regrets a psycho' has following his lovers murder.
My sister and I often find each other rushing headlong into a faux-pass, whilst feeling powerless to stop it.

Thanks to Dave who put us up in Watford. Inspite of being a non-smoker and coping with his own heavy cold.
Thanks also to my adorable sister who paid for most of our trip.

*Fag= Cigarette. The phrase, 'outing a fag' has a totally different meaning in Britain.

My Gang

When I was about eight years old, I formed a gang with my mates Fatty and Spotty. I reckoned that by merely having a name and a logo we would strike fear in the hearts of our enemies. After kicking a few names around we decided on the 'Golden Eagles'. Being the least worst artist, I designed the logo. Unfortunately drawing eagles was not my forte and gold pens weren't available back in the '60's. Consequently when the other kids saw our 'colours' we came to be known as the 'Yellow Chickens'. We disbanded shortly after.

Flash

The plan for the last two days, has been to get up early and reassemble my Reliant three wheeled car ready for going back to work. There is however, no end to my procrastinations. The garage is cramped, cold, very damp, badly lit and fifty feet below the level of my patio. consequently, I have been starting at about 1.00 pm and finishing at around 3.00 pm. To make things worse, Biker Girl has caught a nasty cold and I think she's given it to me.

-----------------------------

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.

There was a character at our steel plant, now retired, called Flash. Flash was in his 50's when I knew him. It has to be said, Flash wasn't the 'most shiny, zinc ingot in the stock bay'.

Flash worked in a control cabin with a young guy called Gary at the 'sharp end' of the process.
The process is speed critical. In those days the briefest of line stops cost the firm about £7000. Consequently, workers would do everything in their power to avoid the whole thing grinding to an ingnominious halt.

It's a night shift at the 'sharp end' and the diarrhoea is flying spectacularly off the fan. Gary is rushing around frenetically trying to get things under control, informing downstream control cabins of the 'problem status' and answering the obligatory internal phone call, which is usually someone from the 'blunt end' blowing a 'raspberry' for entertainment purposes. He's aware that Flash is starting to loose it but reckons as long as he doesn't get in his way and helps with simple tasks when asked, it shouldn't be a problem.

After a short while, Gary is getting the upper hand on the situation but requires some assistance with a two man task. It's at this point he realises he's on his own.

Gary leaves the cabin and walks briskly into the stock area. Like all stock areas it's arranged in a grid system of walk ways.
He's about a quarter of the way down the wider central walk way, when he glimpses Flash, crossing his path at a run, naked but for safety boots and a hard hat!

In the mean time, Gary has figured out a way around the two man task and returns uncomprehendingly to their cabin. He regains control of the process, cranks up the speed and settles down to watching the CCTV monitors.

A few minuits later, Flash returns fully clothed and slightly out of breath.

Gary turns his head to look at him, waiting for an explanation that doesn't come, after as short pause, he asks slowly and deliberately,

"What, in the name of the holy mother of fuck, have you been playing at?"

"She's been running around the stock bay naked"

Flash called everyone, including himself, 'she'. Gary paused again as he tried to make sense of it

"why?"

"She was getting awful stressed, there's nothing like running around naked to relieve stress. Fancy a 'cuppa'?"

Gary picks up the tanoy microphone, this has to be announced.

Stupid Chicken.

I've been using this photo' as my desk top background. I like the way she seems to be crammed inside my monitor,..... and the naked.... booby.... thing.

Anyway, I tried to have a kip earlier on but was thwarted by Evil Chicken who wouldn't stop growling and yapping at it. Every so often she would look back at Baboon But Bobby and me for back up.

It must be the unblinking stare.


Right, back to rebuilding that engine.

Steak Knife.

I've spent so much time, addictively blogging recently, the house work has fallen behind.
Today, I've tidied up a bit.
The dirty dishes are now where they belong, in the wash bowl. The contents of the washing machine have been removed, sniffed, and returned to refresh cycle. All undesirable things ( excluding poodles ) too big to be hoovered up, are neatly stashed under the sofa. The pile of mail, which was blocking my exit to the front door, stacked neatly together for administration.
Usually I open letters with my fingers, but as there happened to be a steak knife on the coffee table, I used that. Much easier.
It wasn't until all the bills and junk had been safely filed in the bin, and I was placing the knife back down on the table, that a startling thought crossed my weary but imaginatively unfocused mind.

This isn't my knife!

cue; trombone shot*

I don't know which conclusion is more alarming. Either something very creepy is going on or, I'm so senile, I acquired the knife some time ago and have forgotten how.




* Trombone shot - The cinematic effect pioneered by Stephen Spielberg, where by the perspective behind an actors head changes to wide angle whilt his head remains the same size in the frame. This shot is used to emphasize moments of horrifying realization.

Bugger! Wrong photograph. Never mind, I'm off down the pub.

The Long Awaited 'Tim's Todger'.

Some time ago, I made reference to a 'Tim's Todger Story'. So far, I haven't delivered. I've felt uncomfortable having 'Tim's todger' hanging over my head for so long. Well you would, wouldn't you.

There is a longstanding gag in our 'works', usually performed by 'gentlemen who don't have to stand quite as close the the urinal as the rest of us'.

You're sat in a control cabin talking to a couple of guys opposite.
In the middle of the conversation, you feel something warm and velvety against the back of your neck.
In a nano-second, your brain performs a search of the file 'sensations you are likely to feel while talking to your mates in a control cabin'.
No find.
It repeats the search.
No find.
This initiates the 'Personal space violation, gather more data routine.'
You've guessed. You pull back and see a penis, attached to a grinning colleague.

Now as a sensation in it's self, it's actually quite pleasant. If it wasn't, you would react before the 'file search'. However, when you suddenly realise what it means, your reaction is instant abhorrance, followed by betrayal, as you realise the guys in front, failed to give the slightest hint of what was coming.

Recently, due to an imminent change in work practice, I've been given a trainee.

Tim. ( real name, I did get his permission )

Tim is an experienced steel man. He's intelligent, despite being what the Americans would call a 'jock'.
It's inevitable, that Tim is only with me when work is undemanding. As a result, we've had time to chat.

He was telling me how, in his younger days in British Steel, during the 80's, he was a perpetrator of the above gag. There was an old hand called Noddy. Pre-Windows computers had just been introduced. Noddy, never having used a key board before, and having poor eye sight, used to, very slowly and deliberately, scan the key board, stamp a key, then look up over his glasses at the screen to check each letter as it came up. You can imagine how long it took him to write.

One day, Noddy is just finishing a long piece of text. He leans back in his grubby office chair, satisfied with his work.
Tim slaps his awesome manhood on Noddy's shoulder.
Now Noddy's been in the industry for years. Seen it all before.
Instead of jumping up in horror, he just strokes it like it's some pet ferret or something saying things like,

"He's a beauty, what a lovely boy, so handsome....."

We were both almost wetting ourselves with laughter as he told me this story. Tears were starting to blur my vision. Just beginning to calm down and catch our breath when I quipped,

"Did you get a bit of 'wind*' in him?"

That set us off again.
I just love these stories.



*wind - Lazy lob, slight thickening due to mild arousal.

The Village Idiot.

I remember my father showing me a cracked and dog eared black and white photograph of his home town, village idiot. He explained how such characters were common in those days. Just accepted. Now they are mostly institutionalized. Except those tragic individuals from urban areas, who became victims of 'care in the community'. The scheme, whereby needy people were simply turfed out of mental hospitals to save money.

Most villagers, including my self, aren't comfortable calling Abey Repeat the village idiot. It seems disrespectful to someone we think kindly of.
It has oft' been said, that when he dies ( he must be in his 70's ), his funeral will be the most well attended of us all. You see, he spends every day walking around the hills an villages nearby, always repeating a recently heard phrase, such as,

"Ho ho ho! Santa Clause is comming. Hello 'Tickers' Santa Clause is comming, isn't he?"

He knows everyone's names, nothing wrong with his memory. Every one knows Abey Repeat. Few, if any of us, are so well known.

I'm not sure what's wrong with him. Some say, they heard he once drank bleach as a kid. No one really knows.
He seems aware he's liked but only in small doses. Like us all, he still wants company, so he spreads himself thinly.

I said he knows everyone's names. That's not entirely true. When I first moved here three years ago, he always called my girlfriend at the time, 'Mrs Roberts'. We saw no reason to correct him.
After we broke up, my sister moved in for a while.
He called her 'Mrs Roberts'
I started dating my first and only Afro'Carrabian lady.
He called her 'Mrs Roberts'.
I just assumed he couldn't tell the difference, even though Fabienne was black and the others white.
Until one day, he bumped into me, as I was locking my front door.

"How's Mrs Roberts?" He politely enquired.

"Very well thank you, Abe"

Then he surprised me by asking,

"That's three 'Mrs Roberts' you've got now, isn't it?"

"Yes Abe" I smiled, "I'm a lucky guy."

The story goes, when his brother died he was institutionalized. Cried every day. The locals protested, signed a petition. The authorities relented and got him a home and full time carer. The carer always makes sure Abey is smartly dressed.

I've heard said he's a 'flasher'. Most, including myself, reckon the sightings in the woods, of Abe with his sizeable 'tool' in hand, are the inevitable consequece of a simple man who wanders. Must need to find an outlet for those tense feelings.

Some time ago, I was looking out of my front bedroom window. I was hoping to see a neighbours car so I could have a chat.
From my right, I could hear Abey talking to himself.
From my left, came a car driving slowly through the narrow road. It drew up next to Abe and the window wound down. Abe approached the window and bent his head to listen. After a short while, and with his head still bent, he started to give the following directions.

"You go straight down here." His right arm made a chopping action, indicating straightness and direction.

"You go straight down here." he repeated.

"straight down here,"
"straight down here,"
"straight down here," each 'straight' was accompanied by the 'arm chopping'.

"You go straight down here."
"You go straight down here." I couldn't see the driver, but I could feel his despair.

"straight down here,"

"You go straight down here." he paused briefly to think.

"You go straight down here, then turn left at Mrs Roberts'."

You have - One - Message.

My regular readers will be familiar with my fun with 'wrong numbers'. Well, I had an answerphone message today that went like this,

"Hi love, it's Joe. Just 'phoning to say....erm...I may be having an 'Anne Summers' party on Saturday. Aunt Hellen's coming. I've got a few of the girls coming. If you want to come, no boys allowed sorry, ...er..Your more than welcome. I shall 'phone your mobile, if not I will speak to you soon. Love you. Byeeeeee."

It might be the 'Joe' mentioned in my post 'Morning after the night before'. I haven't given her my number so how did she call me?

Anyway, I need you to, first, tell me what number I have to ring to find out who called, and secondly, I need your suggestions as to how I should respond for maximum comedic effect. The best suggestion may be the subject of a follow up post.

edit.
Bugger, I remembered the number 1471. I found someone called half an hour later, number witheld, either that or my answerphone clock is wrong. If it is a different call, how can I find out who the penultimate caller was?

---------------------

I came down stairs after a good blog, and found Evil Chicken had removed a package out of my sports bag and was ripping it to pieces. The package contained generic viagra with a street value of £300. I'd bought it for a 'friend'. Honest.
Luckily, she hadn't eaten any of the contents.

Random Stuff.

I received a text today from the Fabulous Karaoke Karen. It read-

"HI PP"

I asked a few colleagues if they knew what it meant but to no avail.

She rang a few minutes later. It turned out she's bought a new mobile. It's default setting is 'predictive text' and she doesn't know how to use it or turn it off.

On the subject of the Fabulous Karaoke Karen, When I confessed to her, I'd used her real name on my blog, I softened the blow by telling her, that as a consequence, she was now a gay icon. So, could my gay readers please 'big her up'.

---------------------

Is it just me, or does anyone else think a 'Big Mac' would be more appropriately named a McSlime burger?

---------------------

You may have read in the national press recently, about Jane Jones, the ex barmaid who married into money but had many lovers on the side. She was recently cleared of conspiring to bump him off. I always think this sort of thing is a sign that the marriage has problems.
Anyway, on a recent visit to my sister in Abergavenny, she told me the local fishmonger had said it was quite exciting shutting up the shop for an hour to have a quick shag.

---------------------

Out last night at the 'Pit Pony' When the 'Oops Upside Your Head' row boat started. Carry-Anne tapped Biker Girl on the arm and said "Come on."
The two ladies rushed to the back of the 'boat' only to be beaten to it by a particularly unattractive gentleman. Both girls immediately spun on their heels and went "Ewww!"

I think I'm getting too old for the 'row boat'. Puts a bit of a strain on the back and thighs. Maybe I'll just make a paper cone and play the cox.

---------------------

A young couple I know recently expressed their desire to marry. They've only been going out a short time. Already, she's insisted he have a penis extension.
I think I'd have spent the money having her vagina and throat shortened.

Question

I was sat in bed last night, doing impressions with my genitals, like you do.
To be honest, I wasn't having much success. I'm all right with 'last turkey in the shop before Christmas'. Easy really, just hoist up your foreskin and think of changing the head gasket on a 1968 Morris 1000. Not much of a challenge.

I was trying for something on a culinary theme. I've often been in awe of ladies achievements in this field, inspite of their limited genital resources ( from a sculptural point of view ).
Well, I say achievements, but really it just boils down to the 'cheese burger', 'kebab' and the 'discarded chewing gum'. Although I'm not entirely sure the latter qualifies as 'culinary'.

Of course there are the exceptions that prove the rule. At one time, it was the talk of the village, what Mrs Evans at number 11, could do with her hugely extended labia. Her repetoir could easily fill a half hour slot. Granted, she did use a few props, the small plastic figure of Princess lyah for instance, for her 'Jabba the Hut' or the suitably painted three foot length of stripped willow for 'giant manta ray' to name but a few.
Indeed, she had considered a stage show, were it not for the commercial consideration of seating arrangements around such a relatively small display.
Which was a pity, because the climax of her show was going to be where, by skillful manipulation of her pelvic floor muscles, she 'walked' herself, by suction alone, up the back of the large laminated pane of plate glass, placed vertically, in front of the audience, that served to protect her from the inevitable drunken, bottle throwing, that usually accompanies such events.

This was in fact, plan 'B'. Plan 'A' was much more ambitious.
Following a chat with Dai Williams, the amateur model plane maker, it was felt that with practice, exercise and some stabilizing fins, she could use her magnificent 'piss flaps' to fly, Dumboesquely, around the auditorium. Sadly neither this project, nor the hugely talented Mrs Evans, ever took off.

Anyway, as I said, I was in the bedroom.....
Mind you, I didn't start there. I had retreated from the lounge. There was a lull in 'Coronation Street' so I'd taken the opportunity to get a bit of practice in.
It was all going well until, during one of my more grotesque experiments, the poodles became alarmed and started yapping and lunging at my groin. I carried on at first, but could see they were gaining in confidence and it was only a matter of time before Baboon But Bobby would 'sound the charge' by ragging my scrotum, and I wasn't in the mood to explain it all down at A & E. Especially, as it was rumored, the nurses there, were still 'tittering' about the time I turned up with the 'hoover' nozzle disappearing into my trouser fly.

I digress, I was in the bedroom, working on the 'hot dog'. A difficult contortion.
As I said, it wasn't going well.
You see the mental demand of achieving the necessary arousal for the 'meat' is at odds with that, required for the 'scrotal plumping' for the 'bun'. What with us men being poor at multitasking, I was beginning to think the whole thing was just a waste of time.
When right then, for no apparent reason, a strange question popped into my head,

'How did people manage to clean wax out of their ears, before the invention of the humble 'bic pen?'