What this blog isn't

It's not a Leeds-based exploration of the joys and challenges of shaping the mortar between house-bricks so that the rain runs off without undue damage.
Nor is it about looking at, achieving, or maintaining erections of the male variety. That's what the rest of the internet is for.
It's also not about drawing peoples' attention to the beauty of the Aurora Borealis by indicating it with an extended forefinger
It probably isn't SFW[Safe For Work] either (especially if you work in a church) thanks to the liberal sprinkling of profanities, heresies and blasphemies.

Thursday, July 31, 2008

"Where've I been? I'll tell you where I've been. I've been to Hell and back. No, I didn't bring you anything. What would you want a souvenir of Hell for?"- The confinement (part 2 of 4)

A blurred and hazy image of an arched tunnel ceiling, all striplights and bared cables. Low thrum of generators and hiss of powered ventilation. Scent of perfume, sweat and cheese pasties. Those were my only impressions after blacking out in the van. When I awake I groggily came to the conclusion that they were brief snatches of consciousness from my arrival here. Wherever here was.

Here turned out to a a roomy cell with stone walls, a bunk and a sturdy looking metal door. I was alone. There was just the one bunk so it looked like I wouldn't have to fight off the affections of a cellmate. Also real prisons don't have roughly hewn stone walls. Or the Dolce & Gabbana mining helmet and overalls that hung on a peg. There was no time to investigate further as a clank of keys heralded a visitor.

"You're either the worst transvestite I've ever seen, or you've been crawling through makeup for hours." I told the man who came through the door.

"I've been crawling through makeup for hours." he replied curtly, handing me the uniform hanging by the door and propelling me out of it. "Welcome to the cosmetics mines. You are now a mole. Get used to it. There's worse things to be down here."

Indeed, before me lay complicated and sprawling underground mine workings. I saw legions of tired looking men toiling carts over  rickety Temple of Doom style scaffolding. There were stunning female overseers patrolling here and there, tasers at easy reach on their exquisitely tooled Italian belts. Finally, incongruously, there was a branch of Greggs.

My guide was Hakim, a taxi driver from Bude who had been snatched two months earlier, in much the same manner as I had been. He explained to me that all makeup was in fact mined from the bowels of Mother Earth herself - the three largest and oldest workings being under London, New York and Paris. These mines were staffed and ran by models (who were also useful in recruitment as I had already found) under the executive control of super-models; who only ever passed on their orders by telephone, being much too busy to toddle off down here for every little thing.

"And the Greggs?" I asked. I had to. It was there, after all.

Turns out man only requires baked goods to live, at least for the short time we hapless prisoners were meant to. The ubiquitous  bakers had also been determined (by model-scientists, or scientist-models, which they preferred) to be the only thing other than cockroaches to be capable of surviving a nuclear blast, so a simple cave-in should be a doddle to shrug off. Then Hakim told me why I was here.

We were truly moles, he and I. Our task? To dig out raw cosmetics from the rich deposits buried in Gaia's belly-folds and to transfer them to the carts for the 'donkeys' to raise up to the packaging plants.  Hakim was right, there were worse things to be. Rabbits, for instance. The reason why it proudly boasts 'not tested on animals' on makeup now. The first time I saw the unfortunate victim of an apricot facial scrub eye bath I decided that I wanted to stay a mole. Before he blindly ran over the edge of the shaft entrance into nothingness - plummeting fourteen floors to a wet, red noisy death with the tops of his femurs sticking up through his shoulders, he had screamed "I could have told them it would bloody hurt, but it's the law. It's the friggin' laaaaaaaw. SPLAT!" There were also Fruit Flies, of whom no-one would speak. Ever. Even in hushed tones.

The months passed slowly, and with little incident. Our overseers were not unkind, though they were highly resistant to all attempts at socializing. When I was told by one of them that they had ways of making me work harder, I grinned broadly and nudged her suggestively. When I recovered from the massive taser-induced electric shock, I agreed with her wholeheartedly and got right back to work. Hakim and I got to know each other better, swapping tales of our home lives an indeterminate distance above us. We were completely institutionalised and gave no thought to escape. Until one fateful night.

We had been summoned to the catwalk, from where all important announcements were made. In the flickering flashes and sound effect whirr of imitation pressmen the newest Size Zero sat dining at her table. She was very recent, this one. They changed like Number Two in The Prisoner, and she was already eyeing her waistline for tell-tale signs of expansion (though she had only taken two bites of tissue and a sip of imported Japanese sea mist) lest she be replaced by a thinner newcomer.

Hakim and I represented our team and were there to hear our orders for the coming week. I hoped it wasn't another uniform change. A fortnight in culottes is enough for any man keen to retain a grasp on his sanity. Is it a skirt with legs or some kind of broken shorts? Man wasn't meant to ask these questions on looking down at himself. Size Zero cleared her throat, thereby shedding nearly a third of her body mass.

"Our surveyors have uncovered a rich vein of shimmer eyeshadow no.4 beneath the mascara seam that your men are working on. We wish you to divert half of your resources to mining this valuable commodity. Immediately. That is all."

"But Size Zero, " Hakim blustered futilely. "That is an incredibly dangerous section of the mine. We had five collapses last month; and even those men who survived them had to be moisturised and exfoliated for a week before they could return to work!"

Malice sparkled in her beautiful eyes. "I think it is time for a species change for you two, and your insolence had decided your fate. Enjoy your rest tonight, gentlemen, for tomorrow you become Fruit Flies!" Accompanied by her mocking laughter we were led out by armed guards and left in a different cell, away from the digging and pasties. Hakim paced the room nervously, much more ill at ease than I. I should have known that it was only blissful ignorance preventing me from panic and horror. You see, he finally explained to me (in tones significantly lower than hushed) what Fruit Flies were, and what they were for.

That's when I knew we had to escape, and before the morning brought us our new and terrifying existence.

Saturday, July 26, 2008

My trip into high adventure (and dudgeon) - The capture (part 1 of 4)

Allow me to tell you where I have been. Permit me to open your eyes to a world unknown to all but a select few. No, not the world of Max Mosley, where the word 'Nazi' can turn a perfectly respectable sick orgy into a reprehensible activity. Sorry Max, but even if you had been taking part in a bovine-themed sick orgy it is still the last two words which anyone outside the judiciary or the press are bothered about - not the costumes. Although you may have had better luck having moo-sex with whores, as they'd then be less likely to run to the press knowing that red-top headline writers and photo archivists would have a field day (pun partially intended) with them.

No, my unknown but welcome reader(s), this is a tale of a topsy-turvy world outside even the confines of jolly Gestapo uber-romps with loose-tongued prossies. A world hidden from all of us. A world I didn't even have the choice of stumbling across. It found me.

I rarely leave the manse, but on one fateful day last year I ventured out into the village below to see the sights and smell the odours of the world outside my ivory tower. I actually have an ivory tower, but do not think me cruel dear reader - my grandfather (non-ferret) discovered the true Elephant's Graveyard many years ago and brought home enough tusks to keep Harry Connick Jr. in piano keys for a thousand lifetimes. My grandmother fashioned the tower from what was left after Grandpa Magnetite sold off enough of his hoard to keep ten generations of us in the money. Yes, tainted money it was, but at least he was a step up from Prescott Bush.

I was happily window-shopping. I'd seen a beautiful one gracing the facade of the newsagent and had made a mental note to ask Withers to pay for and carry it back home as soon as I returned. Turning to cross the main shopping street I was stopped in my tracks by a white Transit van. It had screeched to a stop beside me, all peeling paintwork and rusted sills. Slightly shocked, I tapped on the passenger-side door to remonstrate with the occupants. A grimy window was haltingly rolled down and I got my first surprise of the day.

No 'white van man' this - the passenger leant out from the cab to reveal one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Taken aback, my complaint stuck in my throat. It didn't stand a chance of being voiced because just then another stunningly attractive face peered out at me. Then another. Driver and both passengers were absolutely gorgeous models.

That's when I lost my sight. I had succumbed to the phenomenon of 'lass-blindness'.

[A side note on lass-blindness, which you are unlikely to have explained - even by that most unlikely explainer - wikipedia.

Lass, or woman, blindness is akin to snow blindness. In much the same way as a small patch of snow in a green pasture will not blind you, one pretty woman alone is similarly harmless. It is the wall-to-wall, field-of-vision total expanses of both of these natural occurrences that does harm. This explains why men wake up next to some dreadful horrors after a night out clubbing. The male optic nerve becomes overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of beauties in sight and fails to register grots, hags and slap-tits at all after a while. Beer goggles do NOT protect the wearer, unlike snow goggles, and some researchers have posited that they may even make matters worse.]

The next I knew, I was being bundled roughly into the back of the white van. I fell atop other male forms as the doors were slammed shut and the engine started. Blind and terrified, I cried out to Withers to save me, but my cries were cut off with a rag, reeking of cleanser and nail varnish remover, stuffed into my mouth. I tried to fight back - but the fumes soon overwhelmed me, and I fell onto the pile of slumbering menfolk with the tinkling laughter of my captors ringing in my ears.

Where I woke up will be revealed in the next part of my tale of dread and wonder, coming to a pair of eyes near you soon.

Sunday, July 13, 2008

A filler piece on the origin of Man while I calm down from my ordeal

I believe I have a sound theory as to why men like wanking so much. As luck would have it, it shouldn’t offend any Moral Majority types, as it’s a biblical story too.

Skip to just before the creation of Man. God’s a bit weary of it all now; it’s Saturday. He’s had to come in today. For a full day. At the flat rate.

The angels are just sitting around, being essentially jobless until they and Hell’s minions have got something to fight over. Just lounging, watching God work - occasionally shouting “You’ve missed a bit!” or taking the piss out of His builder’s arse, giggling, and then blaming each other when God rounds angrily on them.

He had to do several thousand species of bird yesterday, put two extra hours in as well. Went out with the seraphim and St. Michael on Friday night to 'have a quick go on the world, before anyone else did'. Woke up feeling terrible, created vomiting - thought “Hey, everybody should try this!”, quickly realised that there was no everybody yet, and decided to make a creature upon which to bestow this gift. So, as a consequence, He rushed a lot of the animals on that Saturday morning - stuck a couple of thousand species below ground in the dark, so He wouldn’t have to bother colouring them in - and it saved Him ages not having to do any eyes for them.

Around lunchtime He creates weather. It immediately rains. Mud forms everywhere and He’s getting up to eyes in the stuff. “What can I do with all this then?” He booms. Remembering the vomiting creature He was going to knock together, He grabs a lump of mud; a pinch here, a squeeze there - Hey Presto! Man.
A subcontractor, finally! God brings all the animals to Adam, and gets the little mug to name them for him. One less dirty job.

Adam thinks he’s on Easy Street, sitting there on his backside in a clearing, naming away like nobodies business.

Winks. “Duck-billed Platypus”

God resists the urge to smack the little twat around a bit.

It must have got a little bit hairy for the lad when the fish were being named though. Adam’s treading water, being unable to doggy paddle because he hasn’t seen one yet. God reaches into the sea, pulls out a something and goes “What’s this then? It’s sleek, long and pointy-toothed. Extremely angry-looking.” And He drops it into the water next to Adam.

A lot of those sea creatures probably got named from the beach after that.

Points. “Octopus”
Points. “Whale”
Points, shaking visibly. “Starfish”

Anyway, Adam at this point is still an innocent, having not eaten of the apple that God shewed him earlier, while he was doing his induction. “Pears, Bananas, Oranges, Fruit of The Tree of Knowledge - don’t eat it. Photocopier - jams all the time. Coffee machine - if you kick it, it dispenses free Bovril.”

Adam just keeps on asking stupid question. Ignorant as he is, he also ignores or forgets everything he’s told. God waxes wrathful and pins him against a Guava tree by his throat, and hisses “Listen, son. I’ve been here since the dawn of time, and all you’ve done is a little bit of bloody naming on your first Saturday job!” God suddenly calms, His grip loosens and His voice no longer splits the skies. “And sorry about the - what was it called? Oh yeah, a shark. Sorry about the shark bite.” And He lets him go, smoothing down Adam’s non-existent clothing.

Feeling a little sorry for Adam - there’s a terrible lump on the lad’s throat now - God says, “Right, I’ll make for you a helpmeet. Keep you off my back.”

And Adam replies,sniggering, “What’s a helpmeet? No wonder you let me name the animals. Fucking helpmeet.”

God says “You’re making this far too easy you know.” And He smacks Adam’s head off the Guava tree.

Adam comes to, minus one rib. Smarts a bit. Still ignorant here remember, he starts asking questions while God’s busy on Eve.

“What are those bits on the front?”
“Why hasn’t she got one of these?”
“What’s she for again?”

God wants to do a proper job this time, having essentially bungled Man, so He ponders for a while on how to distract Adam while He puts twice as much brains in this one.

No need, however. Adam has been looking at Eve for far too long, and it has had its effect. Adam looks wide-eyed down at himself. “Why’s it doing that?”

Problem solved, thinks God. He’ll never know it’s supposed to be a sin, because I haven’t invented sin yet. As long as the little idiot stays away from the tree of you-know-what, we’re laughing.

“Go and find out for yourself. It’s about time you showed some initiative. It’s got something to do with your hand.”

And off goes Adam. Into that first honeyed and idyllic night that fell upon that first, most beautiful garden in all of the world. Masturbating furiously.

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Free at least!

I have managed to finally extricate myself from an incarceration the likes of which would strike a white stripe down a grown man's hair. More to follow.