Doh! A Deer …

There's random and then there's just plain weird.

 Who should turn up in the Goodwood paddock but the … er …

von Trapp Family Singers?

 Deep breath … "Doh, a deer … etc."

 With dancing!

 And clothes made out of your granny's curtains.

 Actually, they were pretty good, but the question remains … "What the fuck?"

Anyhoo … Once they'd doh'd the deer dead, they wandered off with the rest of us to watch the start of the vintage motorcycle racing.

Funny old thing, life …

More Intelligent Design …

Holy crap. I have got to get myself one of these.
And PLEASE check out the Mister Tea link at the bottom. I want one of those, too!

Intelligent Design

I love this world.

Er …

Er …

May the fourth is sure going to be a popular day for this …

Wednesday Window

er …

Meanwhile …

Discuss.

Use both sides of the paper if necessary.

My Funny Valentine

Be afraid.

Be very afraid … for the world is surely about to end.

Stop whooping, Shan; it's not Judgement Day just yet but I do believe one of the signs of impending apocalypse is for me to receive a Valentine's Day card; something I have not done since college, when Jackie the anorexic girl (model for "Anorexic Girl" in the New Kid comic strips) was chasing me.

And speaking of Anna Rex, the card that plopped on to my doormat (or was it into my in-tray?) features her, too.

Hokay, conspiracy fans, over to you:
The clues are:

(a) It was addressed to "Dive" so I must assume it came either from Blogville or one of those weirdo lurkers (hi, guys).

(b) How the fuck did the sender find out where to send it (though I confess it is pretty easy to figure out where I live and where I work from my posts)?

(c) There is an initial inside, but no name.

Any clues as to who Dive's secret admirer may be?
I know and I am grinning bashfully.

Hee hee hee hee hee …

That Pesky Appendage

Hokay, so this is three Maria posts in a row.
What of it?
I just read her comment in yesterday's postbag and she mentioned "that pesky appendage", so here we go; just what the world has been waiting for: a post about my penis.

First up:
Never mind common sense, reason, observation and experiment; the real clincher in the argument against "intelligent design" has to be the penis.
I mean, look at it!
Design?
Intelligent?
For fuck's sake, that has to be the ugliest thing in the universe. A thing stuck to my front that, in its pomp, looks like a deformed sausage, and the rest of the time resembles nothing more than a very elderly, wrinkled midget with its insides sucked out.

And it's not just "intelligent design"; the penis makes one seriously doubt God's existence.
According to scripture, He made us in His image …
I've seen myself naked and I mean "WHAT?"
"What the fuck?"
If that's what God looks like then it's little wonder He goes around disguised as a burning bush or a pillar of fire.
Moses climbs up the mountain and sees Him standing there? He's likely to walk straight back down and start a golden calf factory.
Good Christian people devote their whole lives to worshipping Him and to doing good works and they get to Heaven and see the little sign by the gates that says "Laugh at Him and you go straight down to Hell." And they go in and there's this big throne and sitting on it is something that looks like me first thing in the morning …
With a wizened penis on the front …

And as for the practicality of the thing?
Picture this: I'm sitting in the office, beavering away … remember I design girls' schools for a living and my office is ninety percent weemen … and my girlfriend sends me a frisky email (which she does, dammit).
"SPANG!" I'm stuck at my desk for ages.
I have to sit there, ignoring requests from Aga or Genevieve or Squeaky Kate to help them with something, forcing myself to think of doing a week's worth of washing up with George Bush until my trousers are a more socially acceptable shape.
Working where I do, a misbehaving penis could land me in real hot water.
Which imbecile designed that?
No God worth worshipping, that's for sure.

And that's why I only wear 501s when I'm not at work. I'm a button fly man.
Zip flies? I've seen "There's Something About Mary." Brrr … The zip fly suggests that if there IS a God, then not only is She a woman, but Satan is, too.
I can see Ms. Beelzebub now, cackling to her deformed minions that she has made a new and terrible form of dæmon; a thing consisting of nothing but lots of tiny, sharp teeth, designed to bite into the foreskin or scrotum and never let go. And that she will cause this dæmon to live in men's trousers …
Shudder.

And don't ever go swimming with one!
Cold water makes 'em shrink down to a nub and try to hide inside your body. Tight Speedos are only a good idea BEFORE you go in the water. When you come out, be sure and wear baggies.

Actually, I've never really understood all of this macho, penis-size shit, either.
I drive a small car because I'm happy with my pesky appendage (no, it doesn't have a name); driving a strap-on sports car just screams "TINY DICK!" at passers-by.
And that thing where men can't pee if they're standing next to someone with a big cock?
Weird …
Por exemplo:
Andy, our deputy head of accounts is a six foot five Nigerian, big and black and so darned handsome that the girls in accounts have plastic, wipe-clean chairs; shit, he even gets ME wet.
We're the best of buddies, especially since an incident in the men's room a few years back which will illustrate my point.
We were standing there, peeing and suddenly Andy laughs and I say "Fess up."
He says (absolutely true) "I know "men" don't talk about this stuff, but it just strikes me as funny. In all the years I've been working here, you're the only guy who'll stand next to me and pee. All the others see me here and turn around and duck into a cubicle."
I laughed, but I had to confess that I'm just Mister Average; hung like neither horse nor cashew, but that I've got no hang-ups about it.
Andy replied that - unlike the racist stereotype - he was Mister Average, too … then he chuckled and added "For my height".
Andy, you bastard! Hee hee.

Actually, the reason I can pee next to anybody is that since I was nine, I've played in bands and you have to hold it in on stage and then dash to the loos during your breaks. Just after the music stops the urinals are always crowded so from a young age I just learned to pee next to much bigger guys as a matter of biological necessity. If I couldn't squeeze one out I'd be in real trouble back on stage.

And "penis envy", what the fuck's all that about?
Listen up, girls. You've got it lucky! You can wear strap-ons. You can choose the size, the shape, the colour, the consistency … er … extra knobbly bits, battery power … whatever …
I'm stuck with a Mister Average pink penis.
If my girlfriend says "Actually, today I fancy an eight inch, see-through purple, slightly squidgy one", then I'm gonna be a disappointment. I only come in one size and flavour.
Women shouldn't have penis envy; men should have strap-on envy.
Or vibey envy.

So … in conclusion:
The penis.
A piece of disgustingly ugly and poorly designed meat that crawls around in your trousers and behaves totally independently of your will.
Intelligent design, my arse!

Mind you; it's the only part of a man that doesn't lie.

More Trousers

Sam's dyed his hair pink.
He also opened the door of his ludicrously pimped, mirror-windowed, über-macho "custom car" to reveal a cute Hello Kitty air freshener.
Gandy's resprayed his entire car in the flag of the Imperial Japanese Navy.
And Groover's been seen in a dress.
It's been one of those weeks that reaffirms my faith in the power of Fun as an elemental force for good.

Another quick V…… story as we're on the subject of fun:
Lunchtime.
V……, Bruce and Dive again, wandering through the crowded streets.
V…… and Bruce decide to follow Dive doing that silly "walking as close as possible and keeping in step" walk.
Dive sees a huge, sloppy dog turd in his path and jumps over it.
V…… looks up at Dive, slips on the turd and lands on his arse.
Sloppy turd is thickly smeared all the way up the back of his trousers.
Much hilarity ensues.
V…… stands outside nearby department store while Dive and Bruce take his money and buy him a new pair of trousers.
We buy a horrid brown pair, waaay too short in the leg.
We drop the receipt down a road gully so he cannot change them.
He has to put them on in the street.
Much hilarity ensues.

I'm feeling frisky today so don't come too close to me.

A Cheese-Loving Bibliophile Writes

I ooze my way over to young Robyn's Library Thing and am utterly astonished to learn that there are - incredible as this may seem - some 243,515 books more popular than the classic
"Great Grilled Cheese: 50 Innovative Recipes for Stove Top, Grill and Sandwich Maker"

I am aghast!

Let us right this injustice to the art of cheese-grilling without delay.
Hie thee to Amazon and order your copy today.

er … Pt.2

I remember her laugh (see previous post).

If you can picture the sound of a hyena being beaten with bagpipes (go on, try it);
then
(a) that's what she sounded like,
and
(b) you're a little bit weird.

What?

A long, long time ago I bought a house on the coast.
There was an elderly lady living next door and the first day I was there she leaned over the fence and introduced herself as Daphne Rubbernoids.

Daphne made great marmalade; really strong and bitter. And she sang - rather well - with the local Gilbert and Sullivan Society.

I lived there for over two years and got on really well with old Daphne, but being terribly "English", I never did ask her if I'd heard her last name right.

After I'd moved out I discovered her name was Ellis.

I don't even know why I'm relating this somewhat pointless tale except that the memory of Daphne Rubbernoids just ambushed me by the water cooler and forced its way into my head.

And now it's in yours, too …

Boswell On Puffin Frottage

So at last young Sassy's eyes have been uncovered and she becomes aware of that deliciously tactile French term for "rubbing" (we shall ignore the appalling "modern" usage of the term "dry hump").

The more observant among you will have noticed the occasional reference in this blog to "puffin frottage", an arcane Hebridean practice which, when introduced to Norfolk, with its singular lack of puffins, has led to the almost total extinction of the delightful bittern.

Digging through my second edition of Boswell's Travels With Doctor Johnson, I stumble upon the earliest known literary reference to the practice of puffin frottage.
This passage was mysteriously omitted from subsequent editions, much - in my view - to their detriment.

To further my young colonial correspondent's education on the subject (notwithstanding and acknowledging her Masters Degree in History), I shall now quote verbatim from Boswell's admittedly verbose chapters on Scotland:
(the following passage to be proclaimed slowly and in a pompous voice):

"Our second day upon these desolate Northern Isles sees the inestimable Doctor Johnson engaged in financial negotiations with one of their fiercely parsimonious inhabitants, that we may bear witness to an arcane practice of these shores, the viewing of which the Good Doctor, in his immeasurable wisdom has long since desired.

Presently, negotiations concluded, we are ushered in to a rude stone hut under a turf roof. Inside, peering through a stygian gloom, I behold a circle of thickly clad women, of varied yet indeterminate age, surrounding an open peat fire, the smoke from which tears mine eyes.

The women sit upon crude rocking chairs, excepting the youngest, who is seated by long custom upon a tussock of peat. Beside the hearth lays a rough sack, the contents of which appear in constant and agitated motion.
These are the "Puffins". For we are here to witness that most secretive of all winter practices in these barren Northlands; that of "Puffin Frottage", a traditional and communal afternoon's diversion for those of the Island's women who are unable - through injury or lack of wit - to knit.

The puffins have been brought here as every morning by the men of the broch; said birds being simple creatures to capture by the very method of placing netting over their burrows at night. They are a smallish seabird with a white breast, but are possessed of a fearsome beak disproportionate to their size.

At a given signal the eldest woman reaches into the sack and produces a puffin. We see that - to protect the participants' "delicacies", each bird's head and beak is encased in a decorative padded leathern hood, or "hoood" in the enchanting dialect of this outlandish folk. The puffin is apt for use, being easy to grasp in one hand, even for so delicate a creature as one of the fairer sex, and the bird appears soft and downy, yet with a firmness of body within.

The Good Doctor and myself are seated at either side of the hearth and watch, transfixed, as bird after bird is revealed from within the sack and passed around the circle until at length all but our good selves are possessed of the means to "frot".

By and by, using their free hand, the women lift their heavy skirts and - eldest to youngest and always in a clockwise direction as tradition dictates - the "frot" commences. The hooded puffins are at first rubbed vigorously to excite and agitate them to frenzied movement and then applied to the womens' delicate regions where a more gentle motion is subsequently pursued.

Propriety forbids me to elucidate further, yet I may inform you with some authority - for we witnessed this activity daily during our stay - that the "frot" continues for some hours, the womenfolk whiling the afternoon away in traditional song, or by turns chattering and gossiping among themselves in their soft brogue, only interrupted by the occasional strangled gasp or squeak from one or other "frotter".

Custom further dictates that if, during the "frot" a puffin should become asphyxiated by one of the younger and less experienced "frotters", this unfortunate woman shall be summoned forthwith to the hut of the "Puffin Catchers" where she shall bare her nethermost region and endure summary and severe chastisement with leathern strops, and after, be constrained to wear the deceased bird hung around her neck until two full moons have passed.

Doctor Johnson later became unduly distressed when, during our entire week's sojourn in the Isles not one bird was lost; as he had expressed a passionate interest in witnessing this quaint local custom.

Upon our return to the Metropolis, the Good Doctor attempted - with limited success - to introduce the practice to London Society, utilising the common pigeon as a device of "frot" due to the paucity of puffins hereabouts."

A bit of a pompous windbag, our Bozzer, but 'twas the spirit of the age (or something) …

Apparently - and I would ask our esteemed Mister Knudsen (the Doctor Johnson of our generation) to confirm this - the practice is still current in the nether reaches of Scotland and the Isles.
I would advise anyone wishing to try it at home, however, to Watch That Beak!

So it was a boring train journey last night.
I did what any sane man would do and wrote about frottage.

Normal blog service will be resumed if I ever get out of the seminar I'll be stuck in all day today.
Meanwhile, here is some light music …