Category Archives: wank

jizzerz

In the pub last night Frank, James and I were discussing the less tasteful aspects of pornography, that is an oxymoron of course, all pornography is distasteful but there is a vast chasm of filth between naked ladies showing their bottoms and the hilarious copraphilia, say. Anyway, we were giggling like naughty little schoolboys at the absurdity of it all when the subject of Bukkake came up. Unanimously none of us got it, or rather, we failed to see who gets what out of it.

When a gentleman has finished polishing the brasswear following a visit to the grumble pages contained within the information superhighway, there is always that degree of mild, well, shame. Like you can see yourself from afar, flaccid nob resting on your leg, as one clings onto a soiled bit of paper with ones genetic name all spunked over it. It’s humbling experience we all agreed as we supped our Welton’s, indeed, most (normal) gentlemen reading this will understand this…

In the case of Bukkake we can assume that the recipient of what amounts to be at least a bucket of wallpaper paste right in the face is either, I should imagine, a. deranged b. desperate c. egomaniacal. Not being a woman I will spare you further conjecture, my drinking companions were equally as baffled. But what of the men? I mean who decides to stand about with a load of other chaps tossing the salad for the sole purpose of relieving oneself in unison in the face of a stranger? How does one get a job like that? Is it advertised in the small ads or are the spunkists yanked off the street by men missing little fingers and ordered to perform on pain of death, you know, use it or lose it type thing.

Crucially to our conversation, what happens after the act has taken place? Does one try and make polite conversation, perhaps suggest hair products to the glazed recipient of a wall of jitler ‘Oooh, have you tried Studio Line by L’Oreal, that’s right good for getting wadge out of the roots’, offer her a tissue? Some tissue, I mean? What do you tell your mates down the pub what you’ve up to? Can you look you mum in the eye? Is there life on Mars?

Baffled, we pondered this matter for while prior to discussing the 7 Ages of Rock (and fucking Poxy Music), which was a lot less complicated, though perhaps not as funny.

Last night was as dull as dishwater after the pub, I couldn’t be arsed to cook so I ate a vast quantity of smoked salmon and cream cheese. I made it through ‘Paul Merton in China’ which seems to have turned into ‘Paul Merton tries his hand at observational comedy in China’. It’s not working but its still engaging enough I suppose. I cheered myself up with ‘The Pledge’, Jack Nicolson has never been better but the cost of watching this thoroughly miserable slice of excellence doesn’t inspire one to get down and boogie. I went to bed feeling flat, especially as I was aware that I’d be in fucking work the following day.

And here I am, ta da! I love my job, really, I really reelly relli do


meatingz

I fucking hate banks, I spent over half an hour in one yesterday lunchtime trying to transfer money into my brother’s account. They wouldn’t do it over the phone and I was told that in order to complete the transaction I had to bring along my passport, a utility bill, driving licence, birth certificate, medical records, last bowel movement, plaster cast of my dads cock…It took fucking half an hour and I had to pay £24 for the pleasure of shifting MY fucking hard earned from one place to another. Wankers.

Following this rather unpleasant experience, I had to attend a meeting in the afternoon with a fucking huge music organisation, as I work for another fucking huge music organisation these things happen from time to time. I was meeting primarily to supply confidential information to the client, information that they really, really wanted, which isn’t too bad a job I suppose…

The only downside is that at some point certain costs need to negotiated and it’s from here I turn from the witty congenial fellow you all know and love, into a (perceived) hard nosed bullshitting high-roller who’d film himself pooing into Ronnie Barkers dead mouth if he thought it would earn him an extra couple of quid. Truth is I hate negotiating, if I like the client I’ll make the best offer I can even if I’m losing money in the process. Of course I’m still viewed as if I shot Jill Dando and fiddled with her mimsy before running off. You can’t win. I hate my job.

By means of cleansing myself from the false encounter of meeting a client, a plastic relationship if ever there was one, I took myself off to an exhibition. I was aware that the Hunter S Thompson collection of photographs at The Michael Hoppen gallery was due to close in a couple of weeks and had promised myself to go. Unfortunately the opening hours meant I’d have to take a day off, but by arranging my meeting mid afternoon and telling my colleagues I wouldn’t be back, I knew I could easily make it to the meeting, the gallery and be home at the usual time.

Despite having to motorcycle there in the pissing rain and not being entirely sure of the exact exit off the King’s Road, I eventually arrived at the venue after screaming for directions from the crevice in my visor. Though few, the photographs were sensational, if you don’t know who Dr. Thompson is, or rather, was, you’re obviously a cunt, but you’re forgiven for not knowing that he was a superb photographer…I felt sated on leaving and despite having to bike back in a really heavy pissing rain –and the lack of engine braking mentioned a few blogs back- I arrived home in excellent spirits.

I changed out of my sopping motorcycle gear (though I was as dry as a bone) and prepared myself to meet my mate from up the road in the pub. A jolly time we had too, despite his reminding me of a short story I was supposed to have completed, I toddled off home feeling refreshed and still enjoying the afterglow of the days various gains even if some were resolved by attrition.

Later in the evening, pondering on the Thompson exhibition with a bottle of wine and a spliff in my drawing room if you fucking please, I turned my mind toward the short story proposed by my mate. And fuck my old boots, within a minute the whole cunting thing spewed forth and it was done.

It now requires it to be physically written of course but, dear reader, is that not the fun part?

(the answer is ‘yes’ by the way)

Tonight, drinking with Swineshead, linked to the right of this page. I hope he doesn’t do what he did last time as it was disgraceful.