Osculation

You know what really fucks me off? When I go to catch a train, but my progress is impeded by all those inconsiderate arseholes who always stand on the platforms, giving each other kisses, and in so doing, generally obstruct me, and other right-thinking people, when we want to get into the carriage. Sometimes they even hold up the departure of the train itself while they exchange long, lingering "Frenchies" through the window.

Fortunately, however, I see that measures are now being taken to overcome the problem. It was reported in yesterday’s Telegraph that the authorities at Warrington Bank Quay Station, in Cheshire, have now effectively implemented a “no kissing” policy. The fact that people who live in Warrington are generally so fucking ugly that no-one in their right mind would actually want to kiss any of them in the first place (except maybe to win a bet) is neither here nor there. At least it’s a step in the right direction. I, however, can see some money-making opportunities here, too.

Suppose you really are put out that you can no longer have one of those Trevor Howard/Celia Johnson moments at the station? So why don’t Virgin Trains, who run this particular line, offer to remedy your dilemma? They could employ professional Osculators whose job it would be to administer smooches to your nearest and dearest on your behalf. However, they'd only do this once the train had left the station and everyone was seated, thus ensuring no other passengers would be delayed by the ardour.

The whole thing could be self-financing and organised through the train company's seat allocation computer. You'd simply inform the machine where your loved one was sitting and the degree of intimacy required, and pay accordingly. Then, come departure, the Virgin Osculator would walk up and down the train and seek out those passengers requiring the service. For, say, 50p, a quick peck on the cheek could be administered. £1 = one on the lips. £5 = tongue insertion. £7.50 = tongue plus massage of breast (left or right, as preferred). £10 = tongue plus sucking of nipple. £15 = blow-job. £20 = simulated intercourse. £50 = "all the way", with optional cigarette at the end. (I'd imagine that the Virgin Osculator would need to be some sort of bi-guy in order to be able to cater to both men and women.)

In fact, here's an idea: For a special fee, you should be able to arrange for the Osculator to accompany your loved one off the train, get into a relationship, marry him or her, raise children together, and generally live "till death us do part" on your behalf while you went away and did something more interesting and fulfilling with your life.

I'm Flying Back to the UK

Fuck it.

My Alligator Problem

As everyone is aware, my lean, super-fit, muscular physique makes me irresistible to all discerning women. Unfortunately, however, it also makes me irresistible to alligators.

While this isn't too much of a problem in the UK, here, in South West Florida, it potentially is. This is because this particular estate is criss-crossed by dozens of drainage canals, most of which have hundreds of hungry alligators in them, all no doubt yearning for the opportunity to taste the gourmet fillet mignon of Manhood that is my body.

Naturally, when I'm over here, I have to take certain precautions to avoid being eaten. Perhaps unsurprisingly, not swimming in the canals heads the list. Not gardening comes a close second. Surveys show that the majority of people who are eaten by alligators hereabouts are mowing their lawn when it happens. Apparently, while they're distracted by the grass cutting, the alligator crawls out of the canal, nips up behind them, and catches them unawares. For this reason, I employ Mexican illegal immigrants to do my gardening. Not only are they cheaper to replace when eaten, but when one sees a discarded sombrero floating in the canal, it's a pretty good indication that an alligator is around, so one can then be on one's guard.

Captain Hook of Peter Pan fame had a similar problem to mine, though he didn't employ Mexican illegal immigrants. Instead, his solution was to feed a clock to the alligator. Thereafter, whenever he heard the clock ticking, he knew that the alligator was in the vicinity and so had time to run away. I would like to be able to do the same. The trouble is, modern clocks are quartz and so don't tick. Also, Hook only had the one alligator to worry about, whereas I've got thousands of the fucking things. And even if I could find a quartz clock that ticked, it would cost me a fortune to feed one to each and every alligator in Charlotte County (and, besides which, there are probably local bylaws prohibiting this very practice).

Perhaps a better solution, therefore, would be to feed them all a Mexican illegal. Then, whenever I hear the words "Ay caramba!", I can be reasonably sure that there's an alligator nearby who's swallowed a Mexican, and so effect my escape.

Oysters

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Gone Fishing

Why do they call it "fishing"? After all, if I were in pursuit of, say, deer or wild boar, the said activity wouldn't be referred to as "deering" or "boaring", would it?

I suppose in the latter case, at least, the reason why it isn't is to guard against having to come out with statements like, "I was boaring all yesterday afternoon", because, on occasion, it could, of course, provoke the riposte, "Yesterday afternoon? You're always fucking boring, every day of the fucking week, you tedious fucking cunt." Which would then no doubt lead to arguments, fights, or worse.

Or, then again, perhaps this is exactly what used to happen, and why the term "boaring" subsequently fell out of favour. After all, if you'd risked life and limb, and been gored a few times for your trouble in pursuit of a hairy, tusked wild beast, you'd inevitably feel a bit pissed off when, having proudly announced the news of your triumph over Nature red-in-tooth-and-claw, everyone just responded by calling you a monotonous wanker who was probably functionally impotent, too, and with more than just a touch of BO.

Anyway, I only mention this because I went fishing yesterday afternoon. But en route, I encountered a dead wild boar being eaten by buzzards (probably roadkill - I can't imagine anyone wanting to take out a contract on one). Maybe the buzzards describe what they're doing as "boaring". It certainly looked it, and not very appetizing, either, as you can see from the photograph below.

Sponge Woe

I'm glad I'm not a sponge. The main disadvantage of being one is that, if you're washed up on a beach somewhere, people always have this near atavistic urge to squeeze you out until you're dry. If the practice were applied equally to all washed-up sea creatures - if, 12 months ago, they'd tried to put those sperm whales that were stranded just off the West Florida coast through some sort of giant mangle, for example - then it needn't be an issue. But the fact is, they only ever do it to sponges. Which strikes me as manifestly unfair. I know all this, and more, because I was reading about sponges last night.

Something else I read is that, if you take a sponge and put it into a blender, the resultant goo will eventually turn into another, unique sponge. So in this respect, I suppose it has certain advantages over the aforementioned sperm whale which, under similar circumstances, most probably wouldn't reconstitute.

Then again, I doubt if anyone's ever really tried (where are you going to get a blender big enough to fit a sperm whale?), so you never know. On the down-side, now that the encyclopaedia has gone public with this fact, it's going to most likely encourage people who otherwise wouldn't have done so to put sponges in blenders, if only to see what happens. Which, in the long-term, is probably going to piss off the sponges even more than being habitually squeezed out does. It's not as if they can assuage their frustrations by having spectacular sex, either. This is because, in order to reproduce, a female sponge ejects an ovum, while the male sponge ejects a sperm, and both bits then meet half way between their parents and fertilize. It's boring. The sponge sexual act is the equivalent of going to an orgy but only being a spectator, never a participant.

I suppose, at the instant of fertilization, both sponges could simulate a modicum of excitement by going, "Oh God! Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh ..... Jesus Chisssssst!!!" However, they'd then risk giving their position away to people who wanted to put them in a blender, so, overall, it probably wouldn't be a good idea.

I wonder if a loofah has similar problems? In its natural state, I think it looks not unlike a giant cucumber. I'll bet, thanks to this, quite a few end up mistakenly sliced and put in giant, crust-less sandwiches. I shall investigate the matter further.

Water Bed

I've just been to a bed sale in Punta Gorda, with a view to replacing my existing, though worn-out king size. Nothing appealed. One concept in particular which didn't appeal, despite the persistent efforts of the saleswoman to change my mind, was a water bed.

Water beds, I told her, are a fucking stupid idea. Mostly, they're owned by people who have never had a shag in their lives, but would like to fool their friends into thinking that they're "at it" all the time. The reasons why a water bed is no good - if not downright dangerous - for sex should be obvious to all but the most stupid.

For a start, there are the risks from tidal activity. Couples who are engaged in foreplay during the bed's ebb tide state might lose all track of time. Then suddenly, an unexpected rip tide could come in. The result is that they would be squashed against the ceiling by the rapidly rising waters.

Then there are those dangers posed by external factors. For instance, enthusiastic surfers might come in through the window, anxious to "catch a wave." They would pay no heed to the lovemaking couple, writhing in passion on the bed. Instead, in their rush to "pull into the pipe", they might actually surf too far "in front of the curl" and suffer "wipeout." If their surfboard had one of those sharp fins on the bottom, it could cut everyone in two, and do untold damage to the bed itself.

And of course there's the water itself. Left for too long, it would become an independent eco-system, full of living organisms. Over time, these would give out carbon dioxide, which would naturally carbonate the water in the bed, making it fizzy. As a consequence, continual bouncing up and down on the bed would have the same effect as shaking up a bottle of fizzy drink. At the point of orgasm, the bed would explode, blasting the couple out of the window, and no doubt destroying their house at the same time.

Whatever, now I look back on it, I suppose it's quite possible that the saleswoman wasn't, in fact, trying to sell me a bed at all. It was merely her coded way of soliciting a shag. How could I have ignored all the obvious signals?

Flabby Bastards (2)

Lots of Americans really are as fat as people claim. Yesterday, for example, I was forced to endure the sight of a woman weighing around 20 stone, at least, waddling into my local restaurant, her flabby arse following on about 20 minutes later. This is disgusting. This should be stamped out as it offends my finer feelings.

The thing is, if I go into a bar, swerving, slurring my speech, and obviously drunk, the barman - quite rightly - will refuse to serve me. This is because I'd be suffering from an excess of alcohol and could damage both myself and others were I to continue imbibing. By the same token, therefore, restaurants and supermarkets should refuse to serve customers who are quite obviously overweight. Indeed, in my opinion, the full force of the Law should be brought to bear on these disgusting fat cunts.

For example, the local Sheriff's officers should be given powers to randomly pull over drivers whom they suspect of being flabby. Having done so, they should ask "When did you last eat, sir?" If the answer is some time in the last three hours, then the driver should be required to step outside the vehicle and submit himself to a fat calliper test, where measurements are taken from the waist and tricep areas. Should he give a positive reading - ie body fat composition of 17% plus - then he should be taken down to the Station and booked. The charge would be driving while overweight. I think a 12 month ban and a heavy fine would be in order.

Indeed, food in general needs to be more regulated. The food should be served and priced in individual measures of 160 calories. If you ask for a double - ie two fish fingers (or "fish sticks", as they call them here) - the Waiter ought to look at you contemptuously, as if to say "You don't really want to do that, sir". Food shops and restaurants should be licensed and only allowed to open between the hours of 11.30 am and 11.00 pm, with Last Orders at 10.50 pm and a ten minute statutory Eating Up Time. Thereupon the Head Waiter should ring a bell and shout "Can you eat up, ladies and gentlemen, please. Empty you plates, please. Haven't you people got any homes to go to?"

If my idea were to be implemented, the obesity epidemic could be banished within 12 months.

Blow-Up

I wonder if people ever ask for their money back after buying a blow-up woman? If what's on offer in a Sarasota sex shop called Harmony Center (sic) is anything to go by, I certainly would. I just happened to be passing by this morning, and so took the opportunity to browse some of the wares.

The thing is, the picture on the front of the box generally bears little or no resemblance whatsoever to the contents. For example, a doll marketed as Sweet Experience Shari ($14.99 plus Florida sales tax) is illustrated with a photograph of a woman looking not unlike Demi Moore. However, if you take it out and inflate it, what you actually get is more akin to Betty Boop, albeit with "three realistic orifices" (which, according to ex, Bruce Willis, is three more than Demi ever had). Luscious Leona similarly disappoints. Depicted on the box as a stunning Bo Derek type, the resulting doll puts me in mind of a space hopper with tits.


I suppose, in their defence, the manufacturers of the dolls would argue that, if you go into, say, a McDonalds or Burger King, the illustrations of the food bear little resemblance to the reality of the eating experience, either, what with wilted lettuce, crushed buns, and permanently detumescent gherkins. So why should the depictions of their sex products be any more realistic? But I would counter this by pointing out that McDonalds and Burger King aren't claiming that their products will bring you to orgasm (which is just as well, really, as you wouldn't want people spontaneously ejaculating upon opening their Whopper or McNugget boxes), whereas, with Sweet Experience Shari and Luscious Leona, this actually appears to be the raison d'être behind the dolls' manufacture.

Or maybe it isn't.

When I interrogated the Harmony Center salesman, he claimed that most of these blow-up dolls are, in fact, bought as joke items for bachelor parties and the like and therefore aren't intended for serious use in penetrative sex. Which may or may not be true. But even if it is, it still means that some do get fucked. One wonders by whom. And one especially wonders what sort of sicko would want to shag the blow-up figure which I later encountered in the Venice area, depicted below. (And one also wonders what the fuck the picture on the front of the box was if that is the end-result following use of the foot-pump. Daniel Craig in Lycra trunks, I'd be willing to bet.)

I fear for the future of the world. I really do.

My Visit to Santa Claus

Today I went to visit Santa Claus in his Christmas grotto in Port Charlotte shopping mall and took the opportunity to present a lengthy list of demands. These included an i-Pod, a new food processor, and an Acer Netbook with integral webcam.

Santa asked me if I'd been good this year, basically implying that delivery of the items was contingent upon an answer in the affirmative. Unfortunately, I had to confess that there have been a few lapses. In particular, the fact that I lust after our local vicar, Cate, and that I recently shagged a PR woman, told her that I'd call her again the next day, but never did. I've therefore probably blown it (as regards receipt of the Netbook, anyway).

What I'd like to know is why Santa can't be more like Jesus, given that they're both representatives of the same holiday. If Jesus multi-tasked as an airborne present deliverer as well as a Son of Man, I could have confessed my peccadilloes to Him, said I was sorry, and then been granted absolution. Consequently, I'd have been guaranteed my Christmas presents (after the requisite number of Hail Marys, anyway). But, for whatever reason, Santa Claus doesn't function like this, so I'm fucked.

I suppose one very good reason why Santa doesn't is that, to qualify as a sin forgiver, he'd first have to be crucified. Then again, inconvenient though this is at the time, you only have to do it for the weekend and are thereafter guaranteed to rise again on the third day with all the advantages that this conveys. And as Santa always wears a thick, red jacket and big, red woolly hat with a bobble on the end, the associated scourging and crowing with thorns wouldn't be overly uncomfortable. So why doesn't he go for it?

Possibly because, if Santa did start absolving all sins, his workload would be vastly increased. This is because he'd now have to deliver presents to all those people (possibly an extra billion or so) who'd been bad from January through mid-December, but had suddenly repented at the last moment. His team of flying reindeer wouldn't be able to cope with the extra payload. And, of course, with Santa now preoccupied being a Light of the World, Jesus would no doubt start nipping into shopping malls and asking children what they wanted for Christmas.

I don't know about you, but I find the thought of a 30something bachelor cuddling little boys and girls on His knee highly suspicious, if not actually repugnant.

Raccoon Problem

I have a raccoon problem, as you can see from this photograph I took of one earlier today just outside my back yard. Many other residents of this area also have raccoon problems. Indeed, Charlotte County municipal authority has supplied me with a so called "animal proof" wheelie bin in an effort to stamp the problem out.

Normal bins are evidently easy prey for raccoons. What they do is knock them over and then help themselves to the contents. Of course, if you've chucked away particularly sensitive personal information, such as bank account records or credit card statements, then the raccoons can get hold of these and use them for identify theft. Apparently, it's not unheard of for raccoons to obtain driving licences and even extended credit in this way. In fact, it could well be a factor behind the present credit crunch.

Fortunately, however, my wheelie bin has a lockable lid, so even if the raccoons do knock it over, they won't get what's inside. I can therefore sleep easy at night, safe in the knowledge that I'm not unwittingly supporting a raccoon's recreational drug habit or crime spree, and nor am I allowing the global economy to sink further into the red.

Greetings from Venice, Florida

Inflight Entertainment

Yesterday the weather was a bit shit in England, so I decided to come to Florida. I therefore took a plane, as usual, as this has always seemed to be the most efficient way of getting here. On this occasion, however, I noted something quite unnerving about the aircraft. Something which I feel I should share with you.

The trip began as it normally does, with no major surprises. I was welcomed on board and directed to the left hand side, there to be assigned an extremely comfortable, fully-reclinable seat. Once I was seated, a voluptuous-looking stewardess began to ply me with Champagne. And once the aircraft was in the air, I received complimentary whisky, wine, and so forth, together with some rather delicious meals. It all helped to assuage the boredom of the nine hour flight.

Anyhow, after a few hours or so of being pampered, I started feeling a bit restless. Normally I'd just read a book or watch an inflight movie. On this occasion, though, for a bit of a change, I decided to stretch my legs and explore the rest of the aircraft. This is where I made my unnerving discovery. And this discovery?

Well, like most of you, I'm sure, I had always assumed that the passenger-carrying part of the plane was to the left, as that's where I always go. But you know what? If you go to the right, towards the section where I'd always assumed they stored cargo, fuel, and luggage, they actually have another passenger compartment. At least, this plane did. But what a truly horrible compartment it was.

As far as I could see, none of the passengers here were served complimentary Champagne. Nor did they receive the delicious food that I had received. Indeed, it looked to be inedible slop, which they had to eat using plastic knives and forks. And here's the worst part: instead of having a wide, reclinable seat each with plenty of space around, like mine, these people were all crammed, (if you will forgive the cliché) sardine-like, into narrow rows. I reckon they'd squeezed three rows into a space no wider than about six or seven feet. Furthermore, there were four of these rows across the width of the fuselage, a configuration which repeated itself all the way down to the back of the aircraft.

As you can imagine, the poor wretches who were forced to endure these disgusting conditions looked thoroughly miserable. I was, of course, outraged that such cruel treatment could be meted out to my fellow human beings. "Have you no compassion?" I raged at the cabin crew. "How dare you treat people like this! Would you do this to members of your own family? Have a heart, please! Reach into the depths of your soul and repent of your cruelty!"

But then my flight attendant told me that she was just about to serve up some rather splendid, vintage brandy, so I went back to my seat and paid these people no further heed. Shit happens, after all.

I'm Going Outside ....

... I may be some time.