Gay Nazi Sex Vicar in Schoolgirl Knickers Vice Disco Lawnmower Shock!

Loose bra, no knickers

  Fri 15th October 2021

Another day, another scooter accident.

The one a few weeks ago was more physically debilitating; this one added an additional injury: to my confidence. I slipped on some cobbles which were slimed with wet leaves. I sat down on the grass to compose myself, and a passing couple gave me some tissues with which to wipe the blood away from just above my eye. With the accompanying damage to my cheek, I looked hard for a week or so.

I got back in the saddle as soon as I could. The security guard in Sainsbury's asked me how fast my scooter could go. "Well, only twenty, but that's enough."

"Well, you don't want to be going too fast at your age."

I was going to argue the point, but my leg, eye, cheek, knee, shin and hip were a little sore.


Trina and I were supposed to have been in Croatia this week, but we decided the testing regime is too worrying a thing to carry with you on holiday, so she invited me up to hers. Mel went a bit quiet when I announced my plans.

At Birmingham New Street, a tramp-like shoplifter offered me a litre of vodka. We settled on £7. On the train back down, the man sitting opposite me offered me some vodka and iced tea, which we sat drinking out of cardboard cups. He was chatty and generous, talking about his twins and his job as a night porter, and repeatedly refilling my cup.

He did his best to include the willowy woman next to us. She was content with her coffee, but we all talked easily. It was a trio which could only be composed on a train, consisting of a retired consultant dermatologist, a Polish pisshead, and an English one.

As he got off, he presented me with a bottle of the stuff we'd been drinking.

Thank you Witold!


It went very well with Trina. I was indulged even before I got there, with help with my train fare, and she was generous with the bill division whilst I was there. The women in my life treat me so well. A good deal of drinking, but had a day in Port Sunlight and the Lady Lever Art gallery there, a pleasure for fans of the reclining Victorian nuddy woman. It also holds Joseph Farquharson's Hallmarked and Clintonised picture of sheep in winter.

She drove us to Middlesbrough to see my mum, my sister, and the latter's debut solo art exhibition. Some good photography: the iron arches of Darlington station; a long, rough stone (sewage?) pipe stretching into the North Sea. Some less good textual pieces which show the influence of Farce Book.

In a cheap chain pub, one of a trio of coarse, tightly-T-shirted men said loudly as I walked past, "gotta be a paedo."


Back at Trina's, the local paper reports, with a relish I am afraid I enjoyed, some details of a fraud case involving a pensioner and a younger Italian woman.

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I do not go to Majorca

  Sun 26th September 2021

To Lancaster. An old pal is putting on an acid house reunion at a club I used to go to infrequently.

The cheapest way of getting to Lancaster from here is to fly to Manchester via Majorca, then if you can wait around a bit in Manchester, there's a train from the airport to Lancaster for £5.90. After I took the screenshot here, the air fare came down to £38.

I couldn't be bothered with all the testing palarver though, and found a lift for £20 each way on a car-sharing site. It was a long journey, five hours in a little van, but he was chatty and had an interesting sound track, where white people sing serious songs of self-analysis. I'd have preferred silence but I realise that that is a horror to many.

He drops me off at the motorway junction and I walk up to Kirsty's. She shames me with her hospitality. "Would you like a bit of [homemade] Gruyère quiche?" Raw spinach in a lemony dressing. My youngest is there, the drummer, hugging me with her bony body.

"You know that rave you're going to? Are there any tickets available?" I was lit up. "I don't know, let's see," excited that she might be able to come with me. She wears trousers. Pale blue. Stylish and flimsy, but I was hoping for the Mondrian miniskirt. It feels a bit like going out with a new girlfriend, except we've had three children and we're a hundred-and-eighteen put together.

We get the bus to Morecambe and get in the club. Kirsty has had half an e; me, a third of an acid blotter. I shove my remaining drugs down my pants, which is a good job as we are made to empty our pockets on entry.

I sold a couple of e's but spent the evening dancing with a mysterious but pleasant feeling in my perineum. When I got back to Kirsty's, I discovered it was the plastic bag with two e's in them that had slipped down to my undercarriage.

The place was not quite full enough, but friendly and tactile. Me: "Is that your daughter?" Him: "No, it's me girlfriend." Wide-eyed stare, trying to to stop saying, "you fucking lucky bastard."

Dancing with Kirsty. Fleeting moment of thinking "why the fuck did I throw this one away?"

The Morecambe Male Lager Courtship Dance, which consists of a man in a T-shirt and shorts going up to a well-dressed girl and standing with his legs wide apart and spreading his arms. "Look at me, I'm Morecambe's gift to women." Then everyone on the dancefloor moves away and opens a space around him so that he might get the message.

Chatting to strangers. Arms around waists, sweat everywhere. A finger up to covid and its worrying subjects.

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Mel goes to a gallery

  Wed 15th September 2021

I sit in the park, on a delicious day poised between warm clouds and cool air. I have cider, a scooter, and Winifred Holtby. Two young women in buttock wobble leggings were taking turns around the park with their beprammed babies, mercifully silent, for the moment.

"I'd hate to have a partner who..." I lean towards them as they pass, eager to know what a partner does that she'd hate, and glad Mel never introduces me to her friends using such a doleful word; but they are beyond my hearing.

I move myself and the scooter away from the park gate as I leave, to allow a motley group to pass. It's lead by a woman deftly radaring the ground with one of those blind sticks with a ball on its end. A woman in navy slacks has a badge, spangled and indicating her ninetieth birthday. She moves through the gate in an un-ninetieth way. "Oh! Happy birthday! You slamomed through that gate well!" "It's them, they make me do it," she said, pointing to the uniformed younger pair of women. "Well good on them, get you out. Well done, you're looking in fine form for ninety."

After a moment of wishing I hadn't added the qualification, I beamed with happiness from having said something nice for a change, and scootered away under the wide air and warm blanket of cloud.


To Taunton. It's the first day of Somerset v Lancashire in the County Championship.

Mel invited herself along, refusing my warnings about the long-winded nature of this format of cricket. She asked simple questions about the game that were within my ability to answer. The men we encountered walking from the station to the ground were more difficult, asking me about player selection.

I was surprised at the attendance and we had a little difficulty in finding seats, before we found two plum positions right at the front. I draped my Lancashire flag over the sponsor's advertisement. A woman a few rows behind me said in a stage whisper "I don't know how he's allowed to do that. When we used to put our jumpers over the rails the stewards used to come and tell us to move them."

On my way to the bar, I met a man from Oldham, who said he'd met someone from Bolton. "Quite a few of us here!" The steward standing a couple of yards away said "I make that three then." Inter-county merriment.

"Come on Somerset, make a contest of it," I shouted, as we rattled away at four an over. Next time, we're going in the rowdy seats, with the shouty boozers. "What did you think of it?" I asked Mel on the train. "Long. I could feel myself nodding off at points."


Back in Bristol I expected us both to go home, but she suggested coming back to mine. She's not been to mine for weeks and I wasn't expecting her to ask, so I hopingly warned her about the gallery of splayed women that I have blu-tacked next to my bed. She showed no interest, so in the morning, I said "let's conceal this lewd display of female flesh."

Yes, let's...it's your house, but... well, you can put up what you want." "Yes, it's just a private thing really." "Yes." I got a pillowcase out and secured it under a lamp so that it hanged down to conceal the photographs.

I went to the kitchen, running my tooth along my cuticle, regretting both my audacity in not hurriedly taking them down when we got in, but equally the fact that she isn't going to be like Donna 1, who used to bring girlie mags out for us to look at together.

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Me and Trina do not have sex

  Wed 1st September 2021

One of my current assignments is serving fattening, unhealthy food to fat, unhealthy people, in a works canteen. After my shift, I am turning my scooter on at the works gate, where they all go to smoke. "Right goodnight then," I say to Ten Ton Teddy, whom I served earlier. He interrupts rolling his cigarette to say "have fun on your illegal scooter." "Yeah!" I say, laughing.

Wish I'd had the presence of mind to say "well, they don't suit everyone. You've got to be under a certain weight to ride them for a start."


To Lancaster, to wave my eldest off to Moscow, where she's got a job as a English assistant in the State system there. My damaged leg moans all weekend and I spend money on taxis to avoid the ten-minute walk to Kirsty's house.

I have a couple of days with Trina on her narrowboat and another overnight at her house. Our years-long reconciliation is complete, and I have a happy, drunken, sexless time with her. One morning, I am making an omelette for our breakfast. "I think you're wonderful," she says, wrapping her arms about me.

On Trina's urging, I give in to the irritating limitations of my injury and "go" to the doctor, by filling in an online form. Two hours later I am booked in for an X-ray in Bristol, as they want to eliminate a fracture.

Outside the hospital, dozen of people with visible and invisible disabilities are puffing away under no smoking signs. In radiology, I am met by a rangy African man who shines the sinister rays through my groin. I am embarrassed about my unimpressive credentials showing up on the photograph.

I am informed later that there is no fracture, but there's muscle damage and a bit of arthritis in my hip. On the doctor's advice, I buy an arthritis kit from B&M Bargains.


I go to buy some coffee. The young man in the shop describes the flavour as "funky". I am tempted to say that there is a now obsolete sense of that word which refers to the smell of a vulva, but instead I proffer a tenner. I am told I have to pay by card. "Amazing," he says.

Outside the shop, a homeless beggar says of my scooter, "that's cool that." I straighten up with pride and go off down the road with perhaps exaggerated acceleration.

10 comments »

A pint of custard

  Sun 15th August 2021

"What are you doing?"

I am mixing custard powder with cold water before adding the hot milk. It's not an uncommon form of alchemy in a kitchen, I'd have thought.

"Making custard. He wants custard on it."

He's specifically asked for it thick, so as I pour it on I ask him if it is of the desired viscosity. "Is that OK?" "Just pour it on." "Thicker? Thinner?" "Just pour it on."

I have taken against the man now. There's a power play going on, with him refusing to answer the question. He senses my boss's disapproval and that he can gang up with her against me.

"That's not enough," says my boss, and takes the bowl away from him. She makes a pint of custard -- I know it's a pint because I do the washing up and looked at the level on the jug -- with the emphatic gestures that bosses use when they want to demean one. She inundates the pudding to invisibility.

My boss is one of the most pleasant I have ever had, but she very much dislikes it when one takes the smallest of initiatives.


To force la peste to be over, I go raving. "Italo, electro, disco, house", it said. As I knew she would, Hayley ignored my urging her to buy a ticket immediately, instead sending an email to the organisers which went unanswered. On the night, she was generous with the crack at her boyfriend's slummy, shitty flat. "Are you really going out now?" she said, disappointed that I didn't want to spend perhaps a hundred pounds to slump on a sofa all night.

The place is full to the extent of having to walk sideways past people. So much for it taking a while to get back to normal. It was either a dressy crowd with women in the majority, or my delighted gaze only noticed girls in dresses. A group of young people come and occupy all the seats about me, probably wishing I'd go away. The lad though is friendly, and we talk about drugs and techno before the inevitable ageism, flavoured with homophobia, has to be brought up.

"Can I just ask you with all respect," he elaborates, "do you always come to this kind of thing on your own?" "Not if I can help it, but like I said my friend couldn't get a ticket. I only got a return. It's sold out, isn't it?" No-one would have thought to have asked me such a thing had Hayley been with me. A younger woman as armour.

The e kicked in, and back on the dancefloor the black silhouettes of the dancers were spangled with little rectangles of red confetti.


The following afternoon, revelling in the glassy post-raving daze that has been like a long lost neurological friend, I ring Hayley and ask her if she fancies a pint. Her and K turn up. Whilst K had the pleasant humour of someone who has been to bed recently, Hayley brought a miserable, self-centred, paranoid mood with her. Little hints lately, jokes she's made, have implied she's back on the smack, but this felt more like crack paranoia. I'd left them at midnight so they'd probably been on it for fourteen hours.

I felt as though I was in a laboratory which looked like a harbourside pub. Her mood switched by the minute, taking her boyfriend away for snogging consultations after which she'd return to the table only temporarily cheered.

"Hayley, you're dragging the atmosphere down here. It's a beautiful day, look at the weather. And everyone's in a nice mood, I've had crack, weed, alcohol and I'm on the tail end of some lovely mdma, and you're being all suspicious thinking that we're talking about you. We're not. You're not as important as you think you are. We just want a nice time. You're sat here with two people who love you, so...belt up."

They left suddenly and rudely. The next table had been following it all, and I smiled and gave a little laugh of relief towards them, and welcomed my neurological friend back in.


I ring Mel. "Do you fancy a quiet night in?" I said, partly in order to imply that I wasn't up to sex, although I hardly needed to say that. She's experienced with e and knows how it blurs sexual desire.

She made a delicious Roquefort and mushroom quiche with a base made of grated potato instead of pastry. She was so affectionate and undemanding, despite undoing her blouse and looking down smilingly at my pleasure at her tits in her black bra, which vies for position as my favourite along with the more strappily pornographic red one."You're so girlfriend-y", I tell her. "Lovely bras, nice food."


But despite a willingly undressing girlfriend who's an excellent cook, there remained a scooter-shaped hollow in my life. By kicking the rent and the Council Tax down the road a couple of weeks, I have acquired a replacement for Lesley. I've called the new one Lesley too, as a refusal to let the original out of my life.

I took her out at 1am to the 24-hour offy. It was an exhilarating slalom through the industrial estate, past the fragile sleeping of car- and caravan-dwellers, past a group of black youths smoking weed whilst standing around a car, underneath a dripping railway bridge, and arriving upon the nocturnal Old Market where social life goes on with total disregard for clock time.

Yesterday we went into a new pub I have discovered, a corner house crowded with drunken cider drinkers at two in the afternoon. "Cunt" used in the sense of "close friend"; handshakes and questions about me, just as it should be. It's next door to a posh greengrocers-cum-cafe with a passive-aggressive list of behaviour requests on an A-board outside. It goes on and on, an order of sanitary service. Pleased with themselves, masked middle class people love it, their distaste for the body now writ into non-binding conditions for shopping.

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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person


M / 57 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.


There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic

I am here to change my life. I am here to force myself to change my life.
Chinese man I met during Freshers Week at Lancaster University, 2008

The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
James Meek

Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
Turgenev, Fathers and Sons

I hate the iPod; I hate the idea that music is such a personal thing that you can just stick some earplugs in your ears and have an experience with music. Music is a social phenomenon.
Jeremy Wagner

La vie poetique has its pleasures, and readings--ideally a long way from home--are one of them. I can pretend to be George Szirtes.
George Szirtes

Using words well is a social virtue. Use 'fortuitous' once more to mean 'fortunate' and you move an English word another step towards the dustbin. If your mistake took hold, no-one who valued clarity would be able to use the word again.
John Whale

One good thing about being a Marxist is that you don't have to pretend to like work.
Terry Eagleton, What Is A Novel?, Lancaster University, 1 Feb 2010

The working man is a fucking loser.
Mick, The Golden Lion, Lancaster, 21 Mar 2011

The Comfort of Strangers

23.1.16: Big clearout of the defunct and dormant and dull
16.1.19: Further pruning

If your comment box looks like this, I'm afraid I sometimes can't be bothered with all that palarver just to leave a comment.

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"Just sit still and listen" - woman to teenage girl at Elliott Carter weekend, London 2006

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