So my time at Real has almost drawn to an end. Soon I will have to say goodbye to the free food, the supermodels and the water cooler moments. I may be poorer than an Enron office junior but at least I have enough beauty products to take care of Mothers’ Day for the next five years. If I applied all the anti-ageing creams at once, my skin would probably revert to that of a two-year-old. I have also stockpiled enough glitter reserves to supply the whole of London’s gliterazzi in the event of a sparkle shortage.
A hamper arrived in the office yesterday containing a bottle of Fortnum & Mason champagne, two champagne flutes, fresh strawberries, smoked salmon and champagne truffles. Julie is the lucky benefactor who gets to take the goodies away on her dirty weekend - she hasn’t seen her boyfriend for two months. I got the strawberries and the salmon, so I was happy. I spent the day looking at mullets on the Internet, though I really should have been working - my final task before I leave is to write a short feature on buns. I was suprised when Julie asked me to do this as I didn’t realise my breast-fixation was that obvious. It turned out, however, that the sort of bun they were interested in was of the hair, rather than the stare kind. Still, it did involve contacting ‘Hairdresser Of The Year’ Beverley Cobella to get a couple of quotes from her, and the idea of conducting an innuendo-loaded interview with her appealed to me. ‘Hi Beverley, I wonder if you can help me with a feature we’re doing on buns. There were some great-looking buns at the Milan fashion show recently and we thought Real’s readers would enjoy looking at them. Can you tell me what sort of grip you use when handling buns? And is there a special oil you like to rub on them?’ Before I got the chance to talk buns with Beverley, however, my attention was caught by my one of my favourite non-sexual obsessions, the mullet. My friend Sean who has a 12-year-old cousin at Albyn (I bet he never misses a school sports day) sent me a link to RateMyMullet.com, a great site for those who like it long and greasy from behind but short on top. Since my last mullet rant (back on 27th December) I have seen some fine works of art masquerading as hair styles, my favourite being the Japanese mullet, which reminds me of watching bad kung-fu movies. I enjoy a love / hate relationship with the mullet - I can’t stand the sight of it but I have to look anyway. A bit like when my girlfriend’s mum is doing her self-eating trick. For those of you who have yet to grasp the concept of the mullet, I give you some wise words from the people who know at RateMyMullet.com: ‘The mullet is a way of life, it is a state of mind, it is every person who wears it. Physically it is characterized by short hair on the top, front, and sides of the head, followed by a long drape of hair on the back, reaching at least to the middle of the spine. Typical accessories to the mullet include moustaches, scraggly beards and/or goatees, and sunglasses. Research on the mullet phenomena, at this stage, is still in its infancy. However it is suggested by many top laboratories that the mullet, as it slowly reaches maturity, begins to grow tentacles into the brain of the victim which affect several areas of the brain and fundamentally alter the candidate's actions and behavioural responses. Said behavioural changes mainly include extreme agression, the proclivity to consume large amounts of alcohol, pedophilia, lack of hygiene, dramatic reduction in inhibitions (often bolstered by the consumption of alcohol), sense of paranoia and distrust towards authority/governmental figures, and most importantly - steadily decreasing IQ levels.’
I quite like the idea of forming a mullet tribute band, performing songs by all the great hair-rockers while wearing, of course, a mullet wig. I also like the idea of donning said hair-piece and fucking my girlfriend trucker-style. ‘Keep your head down while I’m driving this thing, Cynthia. And don’t suck so hard - I gotta piss at the next truck-stop. Hey, I’ll buy you a cheeseburger if you swallow the lot. And keep licking my balls - they ain’t seen a shower in weeks.’ When I last spoke to my girlfriend, she was hiding under the bedcovers with her fone because she could hear her mum and dad fucking upstairs. I think it’s sweet of her mum to start practising again so she can be ready for when I get back. It was a bit rude of her not to include her daughter though - parent / child threesomes are usually the best, I’ve found. It’s like fucking your girlfriend when she’s simultaneously young and old. I like it that way - when my girlfriend turns 16 we’re gonna split up and then get back together when she’s 37. In the meantime, perhaps Bob will get his turn - he’s been trying for long enough, and that’s just with me. Today is Thursday which means it is sex advice day over on TW2. In the meantime, I will attempt to deal with a different sort of reader’s problem. I had the (mis)fortune of opening a letter addressed to Real from a guy called Andrew. When someone sends in three handwritten pages of A4 detailling their problem, you know they’re a nutcase. It goes something like this: ‘I am a 29 year old gay guy living in London and trying to get my life back. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like there is light at the end of my tunnel [no, I’m not making this up] and it is thanks to your magazine.’ Andrew’s problem is excess perspiration. He sweats like a well-oiled midget. ‘I cannot ride on the tube if I have to stand as my sweat literally runs down the hand rail. I have never held my partner’s hand in the cinema. Right now I am writing this with my hand on my sleeve so I don’t saturate this page.’ It was at this point that I started to back away and reached for the rubber gloves I always carry with me. ‘I go through 3 t-shirts and 3 pairs of socks a day, my shoes stink to the point where I need 5 pairs so I can change them all the time.’ Andrew explains that he works in a restaurant, but he doesn’t disclose which one. I started having horrible flashbacks about bowls of miso soup I had eaten that were super-salty and hot flannels I had cleaned my face with - were they supposed to be dripping wet? I shouldn’t mock Andrew’s condition for I know only too well what it’s like to sweat like a rapist. Still, I’m sure there are many benefits associated with being sweaty - I bet Andrew has never bought lube in his life; his partner just rubs his dick across his sweaty back. And think how much weight he must lose in sweat every day - he probably hasn’t taken a piss in years. It’s funny how you never see these people on the Lynx adverts. But it comforts me to know I’m not the only guy who’s always getting hot and sticky. It’s ocurred to me, while writing this, that my girlfriend’s sodium levels must be dangerously low at the moment - I can’t wait to go home and top them up. Do you know what her favourite type of crisps are? Salt ‘N’ Shake.
28 February 2002
So my time at Real has almost drawn to an end. Soon I will have to say goodbye to the free food, the supermodels and the water cooler moments. I may be poorer than an Enron office junior but at least I have enough beauty products to take care of Mothers’ Day for the next five years. If I applied all the anti-ageing creams at once, my skin would probably revert to that of a two-year-old. I have also stockpiled enough glitter reserves to supply the whole of London’s gliterazzi in the event of a sparkle shortage.
27 February 2002
Two things of note happened to me yesterday. Firstly, my hair gel arrived. And secondly, I went to a lesbian bar. Now I know which story you’d like to hear first, but my filing clerk mentality compels me to relate the hair gel episode - don’t worry, it’s brief and sticky like all the best things in life.
At about 11 o’clock, a parcel bearing my name arrived in the office. As expected, it was the emergency hair gel I had requested. I eagerly ripped open the plastic seal, only to discover that the Flubber had burst open and was spewing green effluent like a vindaloo-fed rent boy who’s had one hamster too many up the back passage. My precious spike-restoring liquid had spilled everywhere and I was furious until I remembered that I too had done the same thing the first time I got posted through a slot. I went to the toilets and de-gooed, a task that usually falls to my girlfriend. It seemed fitting that I should be performing a girl’s job the day I was due to pay a visit to Dyke Central. Two of the products were still intact and I rinsed them off under the tap. The hair clay was cracked however, and the tube of green stuff had exploded like a pus-filled discharge. I threw the remains into the bin, only to watch it bounce out and start pinging around the room. It was then I remembered what had been in the tub - this wasn’t ordinary hair gel; this was Flubber.
In between my first sticky-fingered experience of the day and my second and third stick-fingered experiences, some twelve hours later, a few more weblogs sprang up like genital herpes. It’s getting to the stage now where my friends are starting weblogs faster than I can read them. People who started a weblog last week have now added a second one to document the things that don’t fit into their current weblog. (If Tara Palmer-Tomkinson could write properly: ‘Well there’s my Gucci weblog and my Prada weblog and there’s my coke and amphetamines weblog. A girl can never have too many blogs in a day.’) Mentally-retarded basket cases who have never expressed an interest in anything other than dribbling are now forming protest marches to campaign for their right to write a weblog. If you promise to come back here once you’ve checked the following ones out, I promise to regale you with a dirty lesbian story, OK?
The queen of indie, Adie Nunn, has started writing Cow Tipping. It’s a good read but the title makes me shudder - last time I showed a cow my tip, it almost licked my foreskin off. Talk about chewing the cod. Another beautifully written weblog, full of understated humour and sexual tension is Try Hard Loser. Emo kids will love it. And if you haven’t been to TW2 yet, GO NOW! There’s some good shit on there - I promise you’ll never look at a flannel in the same way again. Tomorrow, my partner in slime, Bob, tackles your sex questions. Expect much usage of the word ‘fist-fuck’. Which is a nice way, I think, to lead onto the lesbian story...
On a scale of campness from one to ten, with one being Vinnie Jones and ten being Boy George, I am usually a four. When you enter a gay bar, however, that number increases sharply. People don’t presume that you’re straight; they presume that you’re gay until proven innocent. (The same rule also applies in Aberdeen, incidentally.) When a guy walks into a gay bar with spiky highlighted hair, several bracelets, a fluffy wallet-chain and silver nails, it’s not so much a case of jumping to a conclusion as stumbling over the huge neon sign that says ‘Jobby-jabber’. Not that I minded being misunderstood. My cunning plan was to look as camp as possible so that the man-haters wouldn’t think twice as I stared at them with a massive hard-on. And if that failed, I’d say I was a lesbian trapped in a man’s body and would they object if I was to watch them fist each other. The entrance to the lesbian drinking establishment had a picture of two female stick figures holding hands. I liked that, it was a nice touch. Hopefully I’d be seeing a few more nice touches before the evening was over. We climbed the stairs apprehensively and entered the bar. Six heads turned and stared at us, cowboy saloon style. Dyke, dyke, dyke, dyke, dyke, man. Sorry, dyke. They might have been uglier than a leprous japs-eye, but they were still lesbians and I still had a pulse. The bartender was cute actually - she could have pulled a pint of my froth any day. The two women sitting at the table were dull, innocous enough. I’d have happily hid in the closet and watched them do devious things to each other. The two women playing pool, however, were a slightly different kind of labia-licker. Short hair, single ear-rings and arses that put the but(t) into butch. I sat down at a table, trying my hardest not to look like a kid who’s walked in on his parents fucking. Must pretend to be gay. Must not stare. The strangest thing about the pool-playing pussy-punchers was that they were both wearing mechanic’s overalls. She had on a white pair and she had on a dark pair. Being the lesbian virgin that I am, I presumed they must have come to the pub straight from work. Crawl out from under a greasy car, go for a quick drink and then rush home to grease each other. It was only when I noticed how clean their outfits were that I realised the women weren’t wearing overalls - it was their lesbian uniform. I could only imagine the difficulty they must face trying to choose an outfit on a Saturday nite. ‘But darling you can’t wear your white overalls - I was going to wear mine. We wouldn’t want people to stare at us.’ A few more lesbos of the short-haired variety entered the pub. Some would have looked quite pretty with a fringe in their face, rather than a minge. Others would have still looked ugly if you’d stuck a Jennifer Aniston mask on them. One girl in particular was so masculine I would have rather shagged an effeminate bloke. If you really want to look like a ‘proper’ man, try putting on a Man Utd top and eating Scampi Nik-Naks at the bar. Oh, and don’t forget to beat your partner up when you get pissed. Actually, she’d probably quite enjoy that. When I rule the world, only lesbians who look like they might be female will be allowed. Of course lesbians with strap-ons are still OK, as are girlfriends who like to play toy-lesbians. Or even play with lesbian toys. The rest of the evening passed without incident - there were no orgies on the pool-table or vanishing pint glass tricks that I’d been expecting. Nevertheless, I went home and jerked off twice in rapid succession - perhaps my repressed homosexual tendencies had enjoyed their manliness. Or maybe I just like wanking.
26 February 2002
The idea that all students are complete minks who live in a state of constant poverty except for the week their loan cheque arrives is, on the whole, a load of chicken fried rice. Yes, they are minkers, but most of the time they live pretty well. In fact students probably do better than most people with proper jobs. 99% of the time I live quite comfortably, despite my mounting third world debt. Though perhaps there is a connection there. The last few days, however, have definitely been in the one percent category. Sure, I gambled and I ate nice dinner and I paid maintenance for my ten illegitimate kids when I got here, but even without these expenses I’d have been skint. I don’t know much about maths, but five weeks of constantly withdrawing, without depositing anything in is bound to cause problems. Just ask Charlotte’s man from Sex and the City. Matters finally reached a head on Saturday when I discovered that I had £3.06 to last me the whole weekend. Take off two quid for the Internet cafe and I had almost enough left to buy a tin of beer. I managed to resist spending it until Sunday nite, when the burning feeling in my pocket got too much to bear. I rushed to the shops in a frenzy and blew the whole lot on a packet of chocolate chip cookies. They tasted of cardboard, but I gulped them down gratefully like a dog that's just discovered it can eat its own shit. I also had a £1 Mars voucher on me, but the endless row of Asian shops on North End Road refused to accept such currency. They’d probably have taken ruples or even a small goat, but this Mars thing was just going too far. I felt cheered by the thought that my financial problems would soon be solved - the cheque I’d put in the bank on Thursday should have cleared by Monday, right? Wrong. Never forget the first rule of finance: Banks are cunts. If you really, really need that money to pay for your dying wife’s bone marrow transplant, you can be sure they won’t give it to you. Oh sure, Mr Pilkington can have ten grand to build a bigger conservatory, but that's because property has a market value. And his wife was such a dirty bitch at that last swingers party. Like a girl who agrees to a one nite stand but keeps coming back because she wants a ‘relationship’, I had overstayed my welcome at The Royal Bank of Scotland. No longer would they listen to my Monday morning plea and bail me out with another £100. ‘What year of study are you in?’ ‘Third year.’ ‘I’m sorry but you’ve reached your overdraft limit.’ I tried calling back half an hour later and spoke to someone else. ‘What year of study are you in?’ ‘Er, fourth year.’ ‘Are you the guy who phoned up earlier?’ Turd burgulars! You know the reason it takes three days for a cheque to clear is so that the bank can make interest on it. It's how they make their money and it sucks. And why doesn’t a Saturday count as a working day? Lots of people work on Saturdays, right?
With six pence in my pocket, breakfast was looking unlikely. Luckily I still had my secret weapon - the Boots Advantage card. Hooray for bonus points! I had enough on my card to get a meal deal, and another one the next day. Mairi, who does the food articles at Real, also came to my rescue and gave me another sandwich, a freebie from Tesco. I felt like a deathrow inmate whose execution has been stayed for a couple more days pending an appeal. Now that the day's sandwich-fest had been sorted out, I turned my attention to the important issue of hair gel. As any self-respecting punk wannabe will tell you, running out of hair gel is the worst crime you can commit, never mind eating at McDonalds or thinking that Point Of Origin are ‘misunderstood’. There was only one way out of this mess. I picked up the fone and called Wella.
‘Hello, press office.’
‘Hello, it’s Kai here at Real magazine.’
‘Oh hello Kai, how can I help you?’
‘I was just wondering if I could call in some of your Shockwaves products for a feature we’re gonna be running in the magazine.’
‘Oh certainly. What’s the feature on?’
‘Er, spiky hair.’
‘OK, do you know what issue that’ll be in?
‘No, it’s unscheduled at the moment.’
‘Right, I’ll send some Shockwaves over. If you’re interested, we’ve also got some new stuff called Flubber. Would you like me to include a sample?’
I never knew I could lie so convincingly. Sure, every guy’s said ‘I promise I’ll stop in time’ and then proceeded to jet wash the roof of his sister’s mouth, but these things are to be expected.
I worked hard all day and finally arrived home, soaking wet, at eight o’clock. I ate another sandwich. By nine o’clock I was craving a beer even more than I was craving a shag. Not ten beers, not even a nice shiny gambling machine, just a beer. I decided to do a deal. I walked to the corner shop that wasn’t actually on the corner and spoke to the guy who worked there, an old Asian man with a turban. He agreed to keep two cans of Budweiser out for me so I could call in at 12 when my money had cleared. The next three hours dragged by like a 20 minute session of cunnilingus. I looked at my watch. I wrote some more. I looked at my watch again. God, I was thirsty. Sure, there was always water in the tap, but this was different, this was the sort of thirst that could only be satisfied with a nice cool beer and I wasn’t gonna let London tap water spoil that treat. I painted the nails on my right hand. It might come in useful later on - I liked role-play. Or to quote a line from a song I’m working on ‘Now I lie on my arm until it’s gone numb, touch myself up and pretend it’s my mum.’ 11:55. I got up and made my way quietly downstairs. I felt a small wave of excitement welling up inside me. It was sad really, I was getting turned on by that most masculine of drinks, a Budweiser. I trudged along the sodden pavements until I reached the cashpoint. 12:00. It was the moment of truth. I was reaching in my pocket for my card when I saw the notice. ‘Sorry - Closed.’ Cuntrag! It had been working less than four hours earlier. If I’d been in an American redneck movie, I would have kicked that fucking machine’s lights out right then. Instead, I despondently walked to the shop and asked if they would take Switch. Yes, they did but I would have to spend £6. I quickly gathered together some items that would amount to 600 pence - a carton of Ocean Spray, a carton of mango juice, some Sugar Puffs and the two Budweisers. Mr Turban swiped my card through the machine. I told him not to bag the goods until the card had definitely been accepted. Mr Turban seemed quite confident that it would. I wasn’t so sure. Dut-dut-dut-dtt-dtt. Switch machines in small shops work in two stages - it processes the information and sends it to the bank and then it waits before printing out the response: Accept or Decline. But it doesn’t just wait. It lingers for an eternity while the whole world falls into slow motion like every cliched TV murder you’ve ever seen. The scratch of my pen in my pocket sounded like the detonation over Hiroshima. It’s like being at the Roman games, where the gladiators wait to see if Caesar will give them the thumbs up and let them live or if he will signal thumbs down and condemn them to death. The machine started clicking again. Mr Turban gave me the thumbs up. ‘It is working.’ I laughed. I couldn’t help it. A big grin broke out, as if I’d just met a lesbian with a penis fetish. I’d done it. It was my beer and I was taking it home with me. I smiled all the way to the house, and had finished the first can by the time I got to the bus stop. I went to bed and jerked off and fell blisfully asleep in post-coital dreaminess. Good things come to those who come.
25 February 2002
This, in case you didn’t know, is a weblog. I don’t know where the name came from, but I like to think it’s an acromym of Wet Eager Bitches Like Oral Giving. Sadly I have been unable to sample such delights during my stay in London, but I’ve undressed a few visually and I’d like to think that the occasional one has undressed me back. Girls have better imaginations than boys, you know. I might get hard at the mention of the word ‘schoolgirl’ but my girlfriend is halfway to orgasm by the time I’ve finished describing what her mum does to me. Anyway, as I was saying, this is a weblog and it’s all very exciting until it gets repetitive, which takes approximately five minutes. The weird thing is, there are people out there who write about weblogging. ‘Won’t be long honey, I’m just logging a log that some chick’s doing.’ The concept of writing about writing excites me almost as much as the prospect of listening to soccer casuals recite their Torry bitch-related conquests in the pub. Nevertheless, like Morris dancing, it is a testimony to the strangeness of the race we like to call humans. I’m sure Michael of Subsistence could add some suitable philosophy at this point to back me up. (He texted me last week to inform me that according to Philosophy and Psychiatry, ‘In both psychiatric and literary works, the term sodomy is used to describe sexual activity between the penis and mouth or anus.’ So next time you ask your girlfriend to sodomize you and she gives you a funny look, just explain that you were only asking for a blowjob.) It’s getting to the point now where mums are keeping weblogs about what they did with their husbands, who in turn are blogging about what they did with their daughters who are writing about what they’d like to do to their pets. I’m just glad that none of my ex-girlfriends had learned to write while I was dating them. My girlfriend writes, but she’s usually too busy doing other things with her fingers. Since I started electronically smearing my filth over these pages, several of my friends have begun their own explorations into the world of schoolgirls, lesbians and, well, soup. There’s TW2, The Trash Whore Diaries’ pubescent partner, run by Sleazy Bob. If you want your sex problems answered, contact him. If you just want sex, you’ve got my email address. Next to catch onto the weblogging ‘phenomenom’ was Neil, who has decided to write about the fascinating subject of soup. Though his chances of keeping it up are about as good as mine after 12 Breezers and a half score. Then last week, my friend Fiona started a weblog. She also writes about lesbians only her stories are real. Not than mine aren’t, of course. Actually, my girlfriend reported with some horror that a few of her friends don’t believe the tales about her in The Trash Whore Diaries. Let me tell you know now - it’s all true. She may look sweet and innocent - that’s what attracted me to her in the first place, that and the fact that she was wearing school uniform - but this girl is anything but innocent. And while we’re on the subject of schoolgirls, my 14-year-old cousin has started her own confessional, designed to appeal to the Bobs of this world. So now I’ve written in my weblog about people who write weblogs about people who write weblogs. And seeing as everything’s gone full circle, I think I’m gonna go now and masturbate and think about my girlfriend’s mum masturbating while thinking about me masturbating and thinking about poodles. You got that? Believe me, it’s even messier than it sounds.
24 February 2002
‘Son, when you grow up and have a girlfriend or a boyfriend, heed my advice – don’t listen to ‘em. I have learned from your mother that no usually means no but sometimes it means ‘Yes, if you’re sure he doesn’t bite.’ So don’t listen to your partner and they will respect you for it.’
Short of balancing on a tightrope with a crowd of irate Albyn mums below, Graham Norton at one end and the head of the RSPCA at the other, I don’t think I could be in more of a no-win situation. Usually, my girlfriend complains about her portrayal in these pages – ‘It wasn’t a chihuahua, it was a poodle’ etc, but now she’s upset because she didn’t get a mention in yesterday’s entry. Well don’t worry baby, cos today it’s all about you. That’s what you want, right? The question is, where do I start? Like dating a girl with a fondness for spit-roasting (and I am), there are many ways to approach this task. I could write about what we did on our last nite together, when she shouted at me to ‘Move my fucking arm’ because it was preventing her from touching herself. But I don’t want to because these things are personal and are not to be shared outwith the family circle. I could write about the time she got herself off manually and then fell asleep with her fingers still inside, leaving me ‘up in the air’. But you’ve probably heard that one already, from Bob if not from me. What would be really good is if you all sent in your favourite recollections of my girlfriend so that we can satisfy her egomania, and my need to have a different fantasy apart from the usual ‘She comes first’ one. You know the nite she flashed her boobs at everyone in the Palace? Tell me about it. The time the bouncers searched her bag and found three tubes of meatpaste and a dog leash? Too right I wanna know more. And if anyone knows where she learned to be as dirty as her mother, I’m dying to find out. Though I think that answer may have just answered itself. But, y’know, I wouldn’t want everyone to get the wrong impression about my girlfriend. She isn’t all sex, dogs, sex. There’s lobsters in there as well. Seriously though, we often talk about non-sexual stuff. To take a random example, I’ll look up the last text she sent me. You’ll see how boring and mundane it probably is. Ah, here we go; ‘Hey baby! Well I’m finished 4 th day!’ You see, you’ve fallen asleep already, haven’t you? Oh, hang on, I never noticed this bit; ‘Jilled off 2 10mins of allgirl porn b4 I slept I’m sure u’ll B happy 2hear’. Well not really, to be quite frank. The first time she’s came without animal stimuli and I wasn’t there to see it? Dude, that sucks. When I spoke to her on the fone last nite, she said she’d just had a Pot Noodle and was feeling horny. Nothing wrong with that of course. It was only later, while watching TV, that it dawned on me what she was doing. My girlfriend honestly believes that she will find a real poodle in her Pot Noodle. I think she might have missed the point of the advert somehow. Sure, a dog that’s fist-sized would be a great prize for any girl, but even I could see that the advert was probably a joke. I mean, you could pick out the tub that had the poodle in an aisle away – it would be the one sniffing all the other Pot Noodles. And if there was still any doubt, I’m sure The Fly Test would settle the issue. If you’re a guy, or a chick with a dick, go into the supermarket and find the Pot Noodle section. (You may need a woman to show you.) Stand in front of the display and unzip your flies. But don’t take Mr Pink out cos you’re in a supermarket, remember? I got thrown out the last time I did that, but I pulled three MILFs and a guy named Cyril in the process, so it wasn’t all bad. Now, take a Pot Noodle off the shelf and pass it in front of your unzipped trouser area, as if you’re scanning shopping. (Yes, I know that’s not how you’re supposed to scan shopping. Why do you think I’m not at Safeway anymore?) Repeat this process with all the other Pot Noodles. When one of the tubs starts twitching in your hand and suddenly buries itself in your groin, congratulations – you’ve found the dog!
Note to all lesbians who are feeling left out: Coming soon – is there tuna in your satsuma?
Note to my girlfriend, who is always feeling left out: I promise that when I get home we’ll play your special game. For those who don’t know, it’s called ‘Is there a runt…?’ And yes, I do get to pork her.
23 February 2002
I learned a lot last nite. I learned about growing up and surprise parties and Soho on a Friday and white and black and why Wham! were better than anything George Michael did and also that steps leading down to the river are slippery. It started at lunchtime when we went to the pub - me, Hannah and Julie. They’d been promising to take me there for ages and today we finally went and drank beer and talked with other Real staff who were there and watched the crane effortlessly shunting building materials across the road. After work we drank again. It was Kevin’s 40th birthday. I don’t know Kevin but he works in the art department I think. It was a surprise party. I’d never been to a surprise party before. Number 22, High Holborn. A function room in an old pub that was actually a cellar. We drank beer and they drank spritzers and we talked about lesbians and boob jobs. And Kevin arrived and we sang happy birthday and then the DJ played Pretty Vacant and it was a nice moment and I wished I could write a song as good as that. The shiny silver balloons escaped to the ceiling and hung there like a swarm of bees. I signed Kevin’s card – ‘The work experience boy’ and watched as he unwrapped the present his friends had bought him. It was the Starsailor album. That’s what happens when you hit 40. We drank some more but I had no money so people kept buying me drinks and I couldn’t say no even though I don’t like sponging off other people. I’m not like that. 12 o’clock rolled around and they kicked us out. Hannah and Julie were drunk and wanted more and I didn’t object because I’d never had a proper nite out in London. The taxi dropped us in Soho and then we were on our own. There were a lot of people and half of them wanted to sell us drugs or rickshaw rides and some of them wanted to buy things from the girls. We walked past homeless men sifting through rubbish bags in the middle of the street, looking for sandwiches that had been thrown out. It was scary but exciting. We found a club. I can’t remember what it was called but I remember the price - £8. We went inside. It looked very cool. An old church with glitterballs that reflected spots of light off every surface like fireflies in a film. We got more drinks – three Smirnoff Ices, £12. Ouch. We danced to Dexy’s and Cyndi Lauper and Wham! and it was more fun than you would think. We moved up to the bigger dancefloor where lots of black people were dancing to Faithless and hard house music. In the upstairs balcony, a bald businessman drank champagne and entertained a middle-aged blonde. I would have sucked his dick too if he was buying me Moet & Chandon. We had a vodka slammer and then a beer and it was a bad idea but fun. I looked around the club, saw the Japanese girls wearing sunglasses and Asian guys with medallions hanging out and though that everyone was just the same, but in a good way. We left at half three and pushed our way through the traffic and all the people who wanted something from us and ended up at McDonald’s in Leicester Square. The rest of London had also been lured there by salty fries and too much mayonnaise. We ate and it was good. Julie was very drunk and complaining that a scraping of barbecue sauce had been thrown out and that it could have been given to a homeless person. I know she won’t remember. We bundled into taxis – Julie in the first one, then me, then Hannah. I didn’t have enough money to get home in fact I didn’t have enough money to get to the end of the street so I got out and walked about in the cold dark morning. ‘Need a taxi mate?’ ‘Want a taxi?’ ‘Taxi?’ Asian men in private cars stopped to offer me lifts. I had two pounds so I couldn’t. I collected prostitute cards instead but most of them were transsexuals and I didn’t want them. I walked to Embankment – the station would be shut for another hour so I crossed over to the pier. The water was black and cold like in gangster movies when they throw the body in. I walked down the steps leading into the wetness and sat down, four steps up. It was slippery and very cold. I started writing in my notebook although my hand couldn’t feel much and my scribbling was almost unintelligible. 5:15 AM. I got up and went to the station just as the shutters were being drawn back. I was the first person through the turnstiles. I shivered my way downstairs but then I got to the bottom and felt the warm trainy air and I knew I’d miss that smell when I went home even though it wasn’t very nice but right now it was just fine.
22 February 2002
Walking to the front of the class with a hard-on. Lying in bed listening to your parents ‘make love’. Feeling all tingly when you see that girl with the cute smile. Jerking off every nite. Reading Tintin books. It’s strange how the habits you develop as a teenager never seem to go away. Not that there’s anything wrong with that - I love doing these things. Well, most of them. I’m not so keen on the masturbation part as you probably know. Ever since I was little, I’ve done things quickly. At school, I was a fast runner and at home I would gulp my food down so I could rush upstairs and - yep, you’ve guessed - jerk off quickly. I’m not impatient, I just get bored easily. Every evening at six o’clock I run to the tube station and take the stairs on the escalator two at a time. On the other side, I’ll run the half mile from West Bromton station to North End Road and only stop when I reach the Internet cafe. When I get home to Aberdeen, I know my girlfriend will nag me for walking her about too quickly. (Well she will insist on wearing impossibly tall high-heels. They’re all well and good for licking in bed but not for wearing.)
The guy who wrote the Tintin books, Herge, also wrote a cartoon called The Legacy Of Mr Pump. It featured an eccentric millionaire who was obsessed with doing things quickly. He would drink his soup in 17 seconds, trying to beat the previous day’s record, and then slide down a special chute that landed him in the seat of his sports car. Mr Pump died when he lost control of his car and crashed into a tree. I imagine he would have pumped his load out pretty quickly between the sheets as well. But then perhaps Mr Pump viewed sex as a waste of time, and not without reason. In terms of efficiency, sexual intercourse is like panning for gold. If every women’s magazine is to be believed, it begins with glasses of wine and Destiny’s Child and ends an hour later with a male grunt after the girl has had six orgasms over every piece of furniture in the house. That’s a lot of work for six seconds of pleasure. Now maybe my premature ejaculation theory sounds a bit stupid (stick it in, cum in thirty seconds, assist your girlfriend in getting herself off) but that’s the way it used to happen. Only the girl wouldn’t actually get to come. You don’t believe me? Ask your grandparents. In fact better still, just check this quote I lifted from the sex advice section on Buddyhead.com: ‘It seems logical that our prehistoric male ancestors were all rapid ejaculators. The Homo Erectus who could couple quickly with his mate and rapidly reach ejaculation was then free to deal with enemy tribesman and predatory saber-toothed tigers. The slowpoke got clubbed or eaten. Therefore, only rapid ejaculators survived long enough to sire descendants. Thus, if speed of ejaculation were hereditary, we all should have fast ejaculatory reflexes.’ You see, it’s not my fault! When I’m trying to make love to my girlfriend and Buddy is biting and clawing at me cos I’m obstructing her vaginal area, is it any wonder that I come quickly? I think not. Finally there is proof that long, drawn-out sex isn’t natural. Now if only there was an evolutionary explanation to justify going with a schoolgirl and a lobster...
21 February 2002
Finally, my prayers have been answered. No, my girlfriend didn’t go with another chick. And my band have yet to be approached by Nitro Records. It’s a lot simpler than that, and not quite as sexual. Put it this way - it made me hard but if you were watching on DVD, you probably wouldn’t be jerking off with me. What the hell am I talking about? Well, today mummy I won some money! Aren’t you proud of your little boy? That’s right, I went gambling and I came out the pub with more money than I went in with and not because I got cashback. Like experiencing an exceptionally intense orgasm, it’s something that is of no interest to anyone other than yourself, but I’m gonna tell my story anyway cos this is MY FUCKING WEBLOG and if I want to post my cross-stitch patterns on here then I will.
A quick finance check before leaving work revealed that I had... no money basically. The next two weeks were gonna be tight, and that wasn’t counting the £178 phone bill I’d accumulated through phoning sex lines. If I’d thought it through, I would have asked my girlfriend’s mum to call me back, but I was so excited at the time I forgot all about such practicalities. Anyway, having decided to act like a responsible adult for once in my life, I headed straight for the tube station, vowing not to stop for drugs, beer or gambling on the way there. As I passed The Buck’s Head, however, common sense kicked in and I went inside for a pint and cashback, the way I did every nite. The great thing about The Buck’s Head is that it has no gambling machines in it. You drink your pint, you scribble in your notebook and you leave the bar. It’s simple, like all the best things in life. Gosh, I miss my girlfriend. Armed with a crisp ten pound note, I decided to call in at The World’s End, just to put a quid or two in the bandit. I might have picked up many bad habits in the last three weeks but I had yet to become an alcoholic - I got the tenner changed into coins and started playing. Even if I am an alcoholic, my gambling addiction always comes first, just like myself. Putting money in a machine and watching it disappear is one of life’s great pleasures, up there with masturbation and snuff movies. But unlike chicken choking, there’s no cleaning up after you’ve spent your wad in a machine and there’s no need to apologise if you hit the jackpot too soon. A blow by blow account of my meagre winnings would be too much even for me - suffice to say I chose a machine, (The Godfather) put a couple of quid inside and watched the display turn red. This time I grabbed the jackpot before it could penetrate me anally and drained it of £18. It doesn’t matter how much money I’ve spent since getting to London - gambling is measured on a daily basis, and today I beat that punk-ass machine. As I left the pub, it occured to me that I had requested a jackpot win in The Trash Whore Diaries not less than two days previously and that it had just been granted. I would like to mention at this point that I have never seen lesbians snogging and fondling each other’s breasts and that I would like this very much. And my girlfriend - I long for the day when she can swallow my cum greedily while a small chihuahua buries its head deep inside her. For the sake of my penis, is there a god out there? And, for my girlfriend’s sake, is there a dog?
20 February 2002
I was given two incentives yesterday for keeping The Trash Whore Diaries going. Firstly, my girlfriend (yes we’re still going out) said ‘I don’t like them anymore’, and if I’ve managed to gross her out, I must be doing something right. And secondly, in the unlikely event of me making it as like, a totally fucked-up writer dude, I am guaranteed to become MILF bait. Yes, fine women will queue up to offer me cocktails laced with Rhypnol in the hope of fucking me over the poufee while Susan is at her music lesson. I know all this because I was at a book signing last nite by Elizabeth Wurtzel. As explained before, my knowledge of famous people is non-existent - Jennifer Lopez could shit in my mouth and stab me with a big fork and my only recollection would be that it was ‘Some chick with a big ass.’ And then I’d pick out Whitney Houston in the ID parade because she looked like a criminal.
Elizabeth Wurtzel wrote a famous book called Prozac Nation. I know this because someone told me. I don’t read books because I never have time but I should do because books are ace and my university course is about publishing so by rights I ought to be a paperback junkie. In the last three weeks I must have read a page from every classic novel and self-help guide ever written while peering over hunched shoulders on the tube. Sadly, I’ve found it only too easy to get hooked on those books with the big pictures that don’t bother with text apart from the occasional caption detailling ‘Donna’s Dirty Deeds’.
Like walking into the Belmont cinema, I could tell I was somewhere arty as soon as I entered Dirt McNasty’s pub. It wasn’t the place, it was the people. Women, lots of them, smoking Marlboro lights and drinking wine. For a guy who hasn’t seen his girlfriend’s mum in a very long time, ears were not the only thing pricking up as the posh chatter wafted towards us. These were the sort of women I’d jerked off about since I was ten years old. Women who would offer to babysit you and then give you a blowjob when your sister wasn’t looking. And sometimes, if you were lucky, when she was. I wanted to spank their asses, every last one of them. Their drug-taking, shoplifting rolemodel for the evening also had an impressive jize au visage about her. She was cute and American and all the women wanted to share their drug abuse stories with her while the men and the lesbians just wanted to fuck her. Like apes grouped around a strange metal object, we held our drinks but forgot to drink them, wanted to piss but crossed our legs - the spoken word can be wonderfully hypnotic sometimes. It was a thoroughly captivating and engrossing evening and I left McNasty’s with my culture side filled to overflowing. My MILF side was also well catered for and I knew it too would be overflowing before long. I had turned down the chance to see an advance screening of the Britney Spears movie in favour of a book reading held in the pub equivalent of a crowded commuter train. But like an illicit love letter left under the wrong pillow in my girlfriend’s house, the end result was very satisfying. I walked to the station and put 50p in the vending machine but it took my money and kept the candy. I hadn’t even meant to gamble but I’d lost. And so it was that I fell in love with the girl in the kebab shop because she had a very nice smile. I went home and dreamed about my brother winning £180 from the fruit machine. It was all the money that I’d put in.
19 February 2002
I was going to write about breast-feeding today because it is a topical issue and one that is on every young person’s mind. It is not without good reason that my girlfriend and I have been lobbying the government to increase the maximum age of abortion to nine months. My noble mission to educate the developing world about the goodness of breast milk, especially when squirted on the penis and licked off, was jeopardized when I received a letter that threw my plans into chaos. It was from Bob, a sick loser in Aberdeen, but someone I considered to be a mate - the sort of guy who would offer to babysit your sister when you wanted a nite off. And you knew he’d always put her to bed on time - Bob was never late. In fact by all accounts he was usually early. My suspicions had been raised the last few times I spoke to my girlfriend on the fone when I thought I heard heavy breathing and licking sounds in the background. When I asked her about this, she assured me that it was just the dog going to work, the way he always did when her parents were out. Naturally, I thought nothing off it, until now that is. How could a mate do this to me, albeit one with more testosterone than, well, myself? Oh fuck it, read this and decide for yourself:
I’m writing this letter to make a complaint about your trash whore diaries... Despite what your last diary entry seems to suggest, monkeys are not easily trained for sex acts. This is a proven fact, as anyone who’s fucked your mum could tell you. Anyway, I know you must be home sick so I’ve decided to fill you in. I know you’d like that.
I’ve been taking good care of your girlfriend while you are in London, but to be honest she’s beginning to irritate me. Last night I went to your flat, where she was lying on your bed as I had instructed. What I had not expected, was to find her furiously wanking herself with a cocktail stick. Never mind all the excuses of... “yours is bigger than I’m used to,” bullshit – I don’t give a fuck. There are no excuses for initiating pleasure less sex acts!
To be honest, your girlfriend isn’t much of a slut. Every time I fist her it takes an hour to slide it past the wrist, and then she complains about how my finger jewellery and watch hurts her. To get past all this moaning she does, and Christ, she really does moan a lot, I have invented a “game.” It’s kind of a sleazy game called “Sex and Rewards.”
The concept is simple. I get my to fulfil a sex act I dreamt up or saw on the Internet, and in return she gets a pre-agreed reward. It’s much better than the stupid game you invented because you don’t need household pets every time you play it. Let’s remember, your dog is usually knackered from riding your mum all day.
Last night the game was very worthwhile, I was 8 seconds into my rhythm when your girlfriend once again complained that we’d been going for a “very long time,” so I decided to plump for a tit-wank. Oh, no! She wouldn’t agree to that and I decided that we’d play “Sex and Rewards.” If she let me slide my member between her tits, I would give her a beautiful pearl necklace. (Depending on my aim of course.)
The game went fabulously, you should’ve seen the necklace! I was pretty pleased, as I’d even managed to splash some on her face. She just got really mad, cursed me over my “tricks,” and called me bastard. I still can’t figure out how she knew. That’s partly why I’m going to visit her tonight. This time I’m really going to make it up to her, we’ve already agreed on an extra special reward to make things better between us. All I want is to tie her up, and she’ll get a large scarlet ring in return. God, I love anal – and not just receiving.
I can honestly say that I have never been so outraged in all my life - how could she play our game, our special game with a guy whose penis has spent the last three weeks in a vice-like grip? And then I realised the cruel irony, and I sat down and poured myself a very stiff drink. My girlfriend had cheated on me with a guy who was the mirror image of myself. I had become Bob, and Bob had become me and Bob had come on my girlfriend. Next thing I know, they’ll be using our special meatpaste recipe on the dogs, even though we swore that if we broke up we wouldn’t tell anyone else about our special game. I am sick of sex. Whatever happened to waiting outside the girls’ school at ten to three and just watching? There’s no innocence these days - to find a decent virgin in Aberdeen you have to start in primary school, and that’s not counting the father’s first refusal. (And they never do refuse, do they?) Starting from tomorrow, The Trash Whore Diaries will undertake a new mission - to educate people about the harmony that exists between people and animals, and how there is beauty to be found in even the smallest things. I will not be judgemental; if two women want to symbolise their love for one another, who am I to stand in their way? Do to others as you would like them to do to you. Amen.
18 February 2002
Do you remember Calamity James who used to appear in the Beano? You could have Harold Shipman as your doctor, Mo Mowlam as your mother-in-law and Jonathan King as your babysitter and still be luckier than that guy. If there was ever a falling piano in need of a target, you could be sure that James would be there, happily reaching for the pound note he’d found on the pavement. In almost every aspect of my life I have been lucky; short of having a Japanese mother with a salt deficiency I couldn’t really ask for more. I have a dirty bitch for a girlfriend, who has an even dirtier mum; the most deranged frontman I have ever seen sings in my band, and I have a penis that would rival most elephants. Sorry, ants. The only time my luck seems to fail me is in the fields of lesbianism and gambling. Lesbians because I never see any, and a homophobic amputee with a guide dog would have more success; gambling because there is a conspiracy between the capitalist pub chains of the world and the CIA to rob me of my winnings. I don’t mind losing, but it would be nice to take something home for once in my life that isn't a stolen shot glass. The sad truth is, I’ve had more blowjobs than jackpots in the last three weeks and that cannot be right. I never planned it this way, but my cousin was so eager to please and I was needing emptied like a diarretic deviant with a shit fetish. My point is this: If a fruit machine pays out 78% on average, why haven’t I won back most of what I put in? Take last nite for instance. After a weekend of gambling celibacy, I got bored and went to the pub. Once I’d put a few quid in the machine, the feature started to glow red and went onto ‘Super’ bonus - in other words, it was gonna pay out big money. If I selected the nudge win, I would have won a tenner, and still had an option to continue. As I was trying to decide which route to take, the red lights suddenly went out and my ten pounds were gone. Cuntrag! I’m not usually a bad loser, but that was just taking the piss. If I could go into a pub one day and come out with more money than I went in with I would happily retire from every form of gambling known to man, with the possible exception of unprotected sex. Until then, I will stick to stubbornly throwing my not-so-loose change into every unscrupulous machine I encounter. Like a snivelling bondage slave, they abuse me and I still keep coming back for more. It must be love.
17 February 2002
Do you ever get deja-vu? You know, wake up with a used condom on your flaccid penis, your sister lying next to you and your mum shouting ‘Get up, you’re late for school!’ I went for dinner last nite at the same Indian restaurant I ate at a couple of weeks ago and was shown to exactly the same seat I had sat in before. And yep, there were two guys sitting at the table next to me talking posh. Not that I’m dissing upper-middle class Londoners – some of my favourite fantasies involve Lady Victoria Hervey and a strap-on. The conversation went something like this: ‘Richard’s a super bloody guy, quite nice… but lovely, lovely looking guy. He makes some great cocktails.’ Why isn’t there a Richard in my life to make nice drinks for me? All I’ve got is a dick, and I don’t like the drinks it serves. The deja-vu experience continued when the talk turned to football, and Kevin Keegan in particular. Oh please – you guys are so pathetic. You’ve all got one-track minds, haven’t you? At least I am always unique and a delight to socialize with.
Actually, it has been drawn to my attention that The Trash Whore Diaries’ fixation with all things mum related can be somewhat repetitive after a while. But what alternatives are there? I’ve thought long and hard about, well, things long and hard, but other guy’s penises don’t interest me otherwise I would happily produce a dissertation on the subject. And the thing is, I genuinely love mums. Not in a degrading sexual way, but as in a cherishable mother-daughter relationship. And the fact that almost 100 bored housewives and disapproving girlfriends come here each day means that someone must be loving the sex apart from me, and that is a first. You know my girlfriend always smiles when I’m done because she knows it’s time to start stimulating herself manually. Don’t get me wrong, I want her to have explosive multiple orgasms, but I just can’t be bothered waiting that long. And so what if I come quickly? Did you know that by the time I’ve screamed ‘Sorry!’, 1,410 Kit Kats have been eaten in the UK alone? That’s a lot of chocolate. (47 a second – you work it out.) And women are pretty selfish creatures themselves it must be said. It never ceases to amaze me how a girl can scream louder than a Jewish baby at seven days when she’s getting herself off, but when she’s receiving oral, she’ll deliberately stay quiet for the first couple of orgasms and only start to shout once lockjaw has begun to set in. At least with a guy you can tell when he’s come. Or can you? Another great article I found in Real was ‘Does your man fake orgasms?’ Why would a guy want to do that? Well apparently ‘It’s pretty satisfying to get one back against the women who’ve been making mugs of us all these years.’ I can honestly say that no woman has ever faked an orgasm with me – there just isn’t time. And even if I did want to fake my six seconds of fun, it would be impossible because my girlfriend and I don’t have penetrative sex any more. That’s so twentieth century. These days we play a game called Shoot Em Uff. It goes something like this: I sit at one end of the bed jerking off. My girlfriend sits at the other end doing the female equivalent and the dog lies in the middle. When I’m about to come, my girlfriend opens her legs and I try and shoot my load into her, shall we say, vaginal region. (I’m too nice to use the C-word.) If I miss, I have to lick it off her. If I hit the target, the dog has to lick it out. Then it’s my girlfriend’s turn. I lie on my back with my mouth open and wait for her to ejaculate in my face. If she succeeds, I gleefully lap it up. If she doesn’t reach me, the dog starts grooming itself. And if she shoots it past me, I phone up Eurotrash and tell them to ‘Come take a look at this!’ Try it next time you’re in bed with your partner and their pet. Or for an added twist to an already twisted game, get a monkey from the petshop and teach it to swallow – it will already have a masters in masturbating. If it’s a bit slow at understanding the rules of Shoot Em Uff, a quick slap on the ass will let it know when it’s going wrong. I wouldn’t normally advocate spanking two monkeys at once, but for my girlfriend’s pleasure I’ll happily make an exception.
16 February 2002
Rules Of Etiquette While Eating In Indian Restaurants #1: Accept poppadoms. It is impolite to refuse our Eastern friends' version of the rowie. But don't dip it in the green sauce - any food that glows in the dark should be treated with suspicion. The high point of my meal was when the hot flannel was served in a basket that had ants crawling through it. It was a bizarre moment; I half excepted to see cockroaches appearing out the walls like in the Papa Roach video. If I had been a real Aberdonian, I would have asked for 20% off my meal in view of the insectile-trauma I had suffered and then ran out the door while they were fetching my After Eight mint.
Earlier on, I had tried to buy more drugs, but couldn't for the life of me find a dealer anywhere. Hang on, I work in Camden don't I? OK, what actually happened was I took £20 out the cash machine, located the nearest black guy and asked him if he had anything to sell. I'm not being racialist, but if he's black and isn't wearing a suit, he's either a dealer or he's stark naked. This guy definitely had clothes on and his hair was in dreads - a urine test couldn't have been more conclusive. Even better than smoking the product is the fun of buying it; you never know where they're going to take you and who's going to be there. Or, as my parents would probably say, 'You don't know which ditch you'll end up dead in.' I followed the dreaded guy and his companion at a discreet distance until we reached an alleyway leading off the main street. After checking that it was clear, they beckoned for me to follow. We were standing in a graffitied, boarded-up cul-de-sac, and I presumed we were going to do business huddled in the corner. Upon reaching the end of the alley, however, the dreadlocked guy pushed part of the wall and a door swung inwards like something out of a Famous Five adventure, only Julian and co probably never shopped for narcotics. We entered a dark passageway that led through to a curtained-off room full of bruvas smoking da chronic. (Am I allowed to use these words? Probably not; I don't want to be Tim Westwoood.) We did business and I knew it was good - you could have smelt this stuff a mile away with a gas mask on. As I walked to the tube station, I felt extremely proud of my ability to pass The World's End without stopping to throw my change into the bad machines with the hypnotic flashing lights. I might have just spent £30 but it had been a cheap nite out. And because there are no prostitutes between West Brompton station and home, my wallet and my penis remained full. If I was going to (mis)treat my dick, I would have to do it myself. In bed, I flicked through a back issue of Real to put me in the mood - I'd found an article on older women, and why a boy would want to boff someone who was old enough to be - and possibly was - his own mother. Until a couple of years ago, I didn't realise that not all boys had their innocence taken away by a woman whose breasts they used to suck on. But I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one this has happened to - like dogs and meatpaste, it isn't widely documented. The article correctly points out that 'Between the ages of 15 and 19 [make that 21]we have so much testosterone coursing through our bodies, it's inevitable we'll indulge in sweaty fantasies about our leather-skirted art teacher, a friend's sexy mum, or that kind lady in the sweet shop who slips us an extra peardrop.' Uh-huh, uh-huh, and most definitely, though the kind lady never wasted a single drop of mine - she guzzled the lot. If any of you younger women are still perplexed by the sexual appeal surrounding Carol Vorderman and can't understand why your boyfriend has started re-arranging the fridge magnets and counting in his sleep, here is a simple explanation: 'The older woman brings with her the glamour and mystery of a life lived - people met, places seen, experiences experienced.' In other words, she's a dirty bitch who's had more carpet burns than a stoner's bed-sit. One of the hints on how to seduce a younger man is 'Try to maintain a slight air of mystery... When he chats you up, don't make it too easy for him or he might get bored.' That's strange, because the first time I met my girlfriend's mum, she had me tied up and blindfolded before I could say 'Do you have a pool table?' It was a month before I got her name, and even then she insisted on me calling her 'mum'. There's an argument raging at the moment between my girlfriend and her mum over who gets first go of me when I get back. It's times like these when my socialist streak starts to assert itself. If a problem shared is a problem halved then the answer is simple - they can each get 15 seconds.
15 February 2002
There's nothing sweeter than watching grown men clutching impossibly large boquets of flowers as they maneuvere themselves onto the train with feminine precision, fiercely protecting their blowjob ticket. Flowers may be as cliched as a wheelchair at the para Olympics, but guys know they're a safe bet - there's no such thing as a wrong size, and if they wilt and die, the girlfriend won't complain - she's probably used to it. And no matter how much women might protest that they don't like getting flowers, they love it when the twelve red roses arrive on by courier, just like the year before. Lacy underwear, however, is definitely out. You might think your girlfriend looks good in crotchless panties, but unless she's got the same tastes as her mother, you're liable to get beaten round the head with a 12" dildo. And believe me, those things hurt. In the office, Hannah was complaining loudly that her boyfriend had bought her a 34 C bra and size 8 panties. It's one thing to pretend your girlfirend is Carmen Electra when you're humping her, but giving her a pair of schoolgirl's knickers that you found in your pocket after a heavy nite out and a bra that your mum could model just isn't gonna work. If she was that shape, I'd be in the toilets right now cracking one off. Actually I am as it happens, but that's purely coincidental. The girls at work were confused by the tuna fish reference on my Valentine's card, and I couldn't bring myself to shatter their illusions about the female anatomy by explaining that it didn't actually smell of Turkish Delight, not even if you stuffed a whole box of the stuff in there. And when the conversation turned to what I had given my girlfriend, I knew it was time to wheel out the 'It's something special that mustn't be shared with strangers' speech. It's hard to justify the reasoning behind a semen-encrusted sock without sounding like a paedophile in a playgroup. Actually, after the amount of hassle I got from my supposedly dirty girlfriend, I've given up on being romantic. Next year she gets a single red rose and a 60 second fuck in the missionary position if she's lucky. As sexless Valntine's Days go, mine was pretty good. After two weeks of searching, I found my first lesbian couple! Admittedly, they weren't the prettiest cup and saucer I'd ever seen, but I didn't let that prevent me from drooling all over the seat. Pretending to be a retard can come in very handy sometimes. The huge erection was harder to explain away, but I guess even disadvantaged people must get excited at awkward monets, like when their carer's washing them. To celebrate my lesbian success, I went to Borders on Oxford Street and discovered that they sold FIVE lesbian magazines. It's like buses - you wait ages for one and then they all come at once. I know I certainly did. The contents were eye-opening in every sense of the word; my train journey home flashed by in a blur of dildos and dyke tales. It would be criminal not to include some of the juciest extracts from Girlfriend when armed with such features as The Lesbian Sex Survey, which reveals that carpet-minchers would rather fist than be fisted, get analingus (a new one to me) than receive analingus, and that they would rather give oral sex than receive it. Hello, is there something about lesbian vaginas that we should know about - are they really that irresistible? I'll find out somehow, even if it means dressing in drag and trailing round Soho for a week. My evening of celibacy was rounded off with a calling card heist from a couple of phone boxes, in which I was given the opportunity to have a two way oral sex fantasy with Chantel Teaser, or even a schoolgirl fantasy if I preferred. Desisions, decisions. I went home instead, and had a schoolgirl fantasy of my own.
What better way to end this tale than with a love-struck sonnet? For some bizarre reason, my girlfriend has asked me to compose a limerick about thrush, which she is expected to perform in class on Monday. Quite why she would be asking me for assistance when the girl is a walking encyclopedia on the subject is beyond me, but if that's what they make her do in sex education (she's nearly fifteen now), then I'm not going to argue. OK, here goes:
There was a young dyke who got thrush
Which caused her to shave off her bush
When it started to itch, she called in her bitch
And forced her to swallow the slush.
13 February 2002
There's something a bit sad about walking into a restaurant on your own, asking for a table for one and watching as the waiter removes the extra place setting opposite you. It's like admitting 'I don't have any friends and my girlfriend just dumped me, will you let me eat here instead?' All I seem to do these days is eat on my own and scribble ideas in my little black book. When I get home, I'll write less and - provided my gerbil hasn't died - fuck more, but until then I'll stick to scribbling down strange thoughts whenever the urge takes me. It's not as much fun as gambling but it's a lot cheaper. I felt like I was in a movie yesterday when I had a brainwave while taking a shower. It seemed like such a cliched setting that I almost rejected the idea outright. Common sense, however, whispered in my ear and pointed out that I didn't have too many good songs at the moment, so I meekly got out and grabbed my guitar.
Rules of Ettiquette While Eating In Italian Restaurants # 1: Always accept black pepper. Italian waiters feel slighted if they don't get the honour of demonstrating their manly strength as they squeeze the splinters out of the pepper pot. This restaurant had an electric grinder, which somehow defeated the whole purpose. My starter, which was supposed to be mussels, arrived covered in a rash of mushrooms. Ever since I was little I've hated mushrooms. My dad insisted that I'd love them when I grew up. I didn't, and I never got to like mushrooms either. They're not so bad if you swallow, but the texture is just gross. Now where have I heard that before? The great thing about mussels is that they look like part of the vagina (I'm not sure which part) and taste quite similar, but don't leave you with a sore tongue.
The drawbacks of being a loser were further hit home when I got to the Astoria. As I walked in, I remembered that I'd need some money if I was to have any fun. The bouncers, cunts that they are, wouldn't let me outside again, leaving me with the prospect of watching four bands on my own with the grand total of 60p to drink and gamble with. It wasn't even enough to put my bag in the fucking cloakroom. That was when my Tourette's started to kick in. Cuntrag. Gashwagon. Fishfucker. Still, at least I had the dubious pleasure of the Backyard Babies. Musically, they're to Guns 'N' Roses what Quorn is to sirloin steak, but girls lap it up like raspberry dick lick. I was just hoping they'd play the song I liked, Born to Lose. They didn't. Cunts. I was feeling thirsty by now and swayed by the fact that EVERY SINGLE FUCKING PERSON IN THE BUILDING had someone to talk to, I decided to stick it out for Rival Schools and then leave before I could laugh at Nickelback. I half wanted to see if they were any good, but right now I knew they'd only annoy me. Rival Schools, though, were supposed to be good - their album was up there with 'Bleed American' in terms of emo greatness, or so I'd heard. Based on the two songs I stuck around for, I don't think I like emo. Not if it sounds like a heavier version of Cast. Yes, that's how good Rival Schools were. As I went home, I rued not having sold my ticket to a tout. I could have bought a blowjob instead, or even gambled it away. I could have sponsored an endangered gorilla in China. But no, I let some fucking Jesus Christ wannabes have my money so they could buy more crimping irons for their hair. God, I'm a retard sometimes.
I'm not so pissed off today because it's the day of love and I'm gonna spend some quality time with my penis later. Plus my girlfriend got her parcel and I know she liked it cos her text to me read 'Oh my god u really used that sock didn't u?!' Oh yes. Just once or twice. I'm kind of missing it now - Dennis the Menace felt so much better than all the other socks, but still not as good as the twisty thing my girlfirend does when she's jerking me off. I love those family traditions that get passed down from mother to daughter, and just keep on going down until they're so low that even Sarah Jessica Parker wouldn't go there. While the girls in the office have received a steady stream of heart-shaped cards, chocolates and emails that play 'romantic' tunes, I have a customised Love Hearts card containing such stirring sentiments as Punk Me, Trash Whore, Nipple Sucker and Tuna Fish. Oh, and I've got all the best press releases to keep me happy; 'What kind of girl are you? Towel or tampon? Wings or without? Nightime or regular? Or perhaps it just depends on your mood that month?' Without, definitely. I just can't get enough of that sticky-pants feeling that screams 'Sniff me, I'm wet!' I think the girls in the office are finally starting to realise that I'm not the cute work experience boy they thought I was, but instead a sexual monster who probably thinks about them when he masturbates. I kept quiet for the first couple weeks whenever discussions about strained wrists and teabags cropped up, but I just can't help myself any more. When I innocently mentioned that I wouldn't have minded Amy Gehring being my teacher, everyone looked at me like I was some kind of deviant. Apparently they've had her posing for fotos with a cane in her hand. Dirty! Amy, you can spank my ass any time you want to. And if any of your 16-year-old pupettes want to join in, bring them too. Any woman who puts oral before moral gets my vote.
Do you remember when Simon Mayo used to DJ on Radio 1 and he did Confessions, where people could fone in and admit to bad stuff they'd done? And then they made it into a TV series but that was shit. I have a serious confession to make, one that will shock animal lovers everywhere. And before you start raising your eyebrows, it's not that sort of animal confession; those hamsters love their job. I made a mistake today, the sort of mistake that only happens when there's a full moon and my anti-depressants have ran out and it makes me feel a strange emotion that I believe is called guilt. When I asked my girlfriend's mum about this, she said she'd never heard of this guilt thing and she'd certainly never felt it. This suprised me, to say the least, but I know that I must exorcise my personal guilt while it is still fresh in my mind or I will never be able to come to terms with what I have done. Please forgive me for what I am about to write and remember I never meant it, I was trying to be kind. OK I've put this off for long enough, so here goes...
Every morning, my routine follows a regular pattern; I get up , I get ready, I get the train and several changes later, I arrive in Camden. If everything goes to plan, I have plenty of time to get breakfast before strolling to the office. After yesterday's salad experience, I decided to eat something boring today, something that wouldn't leave me feeling like a drip-fed inmate on hunger strike. I went to a truckers' greasy cafe and ordered a bap with sausage, bacon and ketchup to go. I have a tendency to eat my food too fast and today was no exception; I gulped it down like a cock-gobbler doing unpaid overtime as I walked to work, stopping every few minutes to pull up my dangerously low trousers. When I got to the end of my roll, I started looking for a bin to throw the crust into. This was when I spotted the kitten. It was ginger and very cute, as kittens tend to be. Being the generous, always giving to charity and recycling my own waste guy that I am, I decided to be nice to that little kitten and give him the last bit of my roll. My heart welled up with happiness as I threw the morsel to him. Unfortunately, the kitten hadn't seen me. He was sunbathing at the top of a metal staircase that led down to the ground floor of a house. The roll bounced twice and landed on the step; it was a perfect shot. For a split second, the kitten didn't move. Then suddenly, as it was rudely awakened from its siesta, it leapt in the air, the way cats do when they get a shock. Unfortunately, this kitten was twenty feet above a concrete floor when it got its shock. There was a miaow and a scrabbling of claws as the kitten desperately tried to hold onto the metal surface, and then it was gone, over the edge. I felt terrible, but I kept on walking. I couldn't bring myself to look, and though I know there is a good chance that the kitten survived, I feel so bad; I hurt that kitten when it was just minding its own business and I will have nightmares about that for the rest of my life. It's no less than I deserve. I might pretend to be a wild punk kid, but really I'm just a vegan animal lover who has a hopeless softspot for puppies and other furry things. From now on, The Trash Whore Diaries will serve as a memorial to Fluffy the kitten. Everything I do for the rest of my life will be done for him, and him only. If Fluffy would have loved it, I will do it, whatever it may be. I am sure my girlfriend will understand and co-operate fully in helping make this kitten's dreams come true. Fluffy loved his mother's milk.
12 February 2002
I had a pre-midlife crisis this morning when I looked at the contents of my waste paper basket and realised what I'd become. When the top three items in your bin consist of a pizza box, a beer can and a sock that's been filled more times than Patsy Kensit, you know you're one of two things; a WWF fan or a games programmer. The problem is, I am neither - the closest I get to wrestling is trying to keep my penis in my pants while watching Countdown with my girlfriend's parents, and one look at this page will reveal that I don't know my HTMLs from my DVDAs, so where exactly do I fit in? I don't watch Sky Sports and I don't have a PS2, so where does all the time go? My day isn't completely taken up with masturbation and mum jokes, despite how it might seem. Sure, if you take 30 seconds and repeat that every hour, on the hour, that's a lot of wanking, but it's hardly in danger of threatening Ambrosia's share of the instant custard market. When girls have told me in the past that I've been 'lacking', I laughed it off as jealousy, but I'm starting to think that they might be right; I am lacking - lacking in motivation. I'm 21, and while most people my age have started pension plans and protected sex, I'm still trapped (sometimes literally) in the body of a teenager. When you achieve your goals at the incredibly young age that I did, it leaves you with nothing to aim for except the G-spot, which you're destined to miss every time. When I got my first blowjob, at the age of twelve, I knew that I had made it. And years later, when I got my first blowjob where I didn't have to swallow myself (she was also twelve, coincidentally) I felt like I'd conquered the world. Before I grow old and find myself permanently sat on the bench opposite St Margaret's, pretending to read my newspaper, there's a few more things I'd like to do. Like bring my girlfriend to orgasm, just once. And eat at McDonalds in every country. I've already conquered the UK, France, Cyprus, Denmark, Sweden and the USA, but that still leaves a lot of Extra Value Meals to be accounted for. I would also like to be stuck on a boat for six hours with 300 Danish schoolgirs. My cousin and I got talking to Marco last nite, a young German guy who regaled us with tales of Scandinavian sixteen-year-olds who liked to get pissed on the ferry and then proceed to fuck everything in sight. Apparently, this is why they all have chlamydia in Denmark. Still, that's a small price to pay for a ticket to Jonathan King's summer camp. Marco texted my cousin later to tell us that he'd had his nose broken at the Kittie gig. Poor guy - those girls probably incited the violence against him; 'We fucking hate you men and your dicks. Raargh!'
So we get to Random Statistic of the Day: It took my girlfriend one minute and fifteen seconds to cum using her electric toothbrush last nite. I know because I timed her over the phone. I've got the whole thing recorded if you don't believe me. Or even if you do, but would like conclusive proof. Incidentally, who says women don't like getting practical gifts on Valentine's Day? Believe me, they do - provided it's battery operated. I'll never forget the day I lost my old mobile fone, the one that was always stuck on vibrate alert, and then found it... Actually, I think I'll save that story for another time. I've got a busy day at work ahead of me and I wouldn't want to tire myself out before my first scheduled 'toilet-break'. If you want to know where my fone got to, try calling it. I'm sure she won't mind.
11 February 2002
As I pulled on my 'Tell your mom I said hi' t-shirt this morning, I suddenly remembered that one of the women in the office had been off for a week because her mum had died and this was her first day back. Woah, that was a close one. I wouldn't want to be accused of insensitivity, not while I was still capable of shooting my load at the slightest touch of a feather.
On my way to work, I spent my last £2 on salad and then wondered, an hour later, why I felt so hungry. Damn rabbit food, what was the point in eating the stuff if it only made you want to take every chicken wing from the KFC at gunpoint? I found a 'NEW!' coffee Multi-Grain bar in the office which tasted of coffee, strangely enough, but with extra squidginess. It was better than salad, but then so is sperm, apparently. Having sifted through the mail and taken out the coolest freebies, I decided it was time for the Silly Press Release competition. Random Statistic Of The Day is from Veromax for Women. Did you know that 72% of women reported an improvement in the frequency of orgasm during trials? Yep, it was up by 100% to twice a year. Guess what I'm gonna be buying on Mother's Day..
Because everyone's minds and dicks seem to be on Valentine's Day right now, I feel I ought to share some of that romantic spirit with you all, courtesy of For Play sex creams, a 'groundbreaking approach to sexual pleasure.' Why not try some of these on your loved one? (No, not your penis. Someone else's.) 'Ying Yang Oil. What part of your lover's body have you yet to explore?' Well all of it I guess. I usually head straight for the panties, with a quick token kiss on the breasts on the way down. Actually, come to think about it, I've never kissed my girlfriend on the lips before. I must remedy that when I get home; I wouldn't want her to think I'm only using her for sex. So, what else do we have? 'Divine Nipple Gel. Designed to make the nipple erect and a great ice-breaker.' I bet it is... 'Hi, can I buy you a drink? No? Well how about if I rub Nipple Gel on your tits?' There are also such delights as 'Interplay Gel. Play with your lover tonight - sing your love song.' Sorry, but no matter how much I like my girlfriend, I refuse to bash out an unacompanied version of 'Kiss Me Where It Smells Funny'. Though I must say, I like the sound of Anticipation Cream - 'Feel his deep love.' 'Oh baby, thrust your deep love into me. What do you mean, it's already in?' And finally, we have Fantasy Massage Gel. 'I dreamt I was a butterfly dreaming I was a man.' My girlfriend had that dream the other nite, though that's just an edited version. The full version goes like this: 'I dreamt I was a butterfly dreaming I was a man with a massive erection and then I went to the cupboard and took out the Primula and smeared cheese paste all over my throbbing penis and called Buddy through and he licked it off and just as he was finishing off I realised that my mum had been watching the whole time.'
People - whatever you do on Valentine's Day, make sure it's safe. I've lost count of the times I've traipsed to the Family Planning Clinic with my girlfriend only to be told 'Sorry, your mother was in earlier and she took the last morning after pill we had.' It's got to the stage now where we're on first name terms with the staff at the abortion clinic. I have decided to make a Valentine's resolution - from now on, I'm gonna stick with anal, at least until my girlfriend's mum has her hysterectomy. And I'm going to try and stop making mum jokes - there's nothing funny about watching a 37-year-old crawl about on all fours, growling over her bone. It's pitiful really - what's the point in having a dog and barking yourself?
10 February 2002
I’ve invented a new game to play on the Underground. It’s called Sit Down Syndrome. Basically, you squeeze yourself into a crowded carriage, hang your head to one side and start flapping your arms like a retard. Within minutes, the carriage has emptied and you can choose any seat you want. It also helps to dribble like you’ve just caught Kournikova in the shower and to mutter phrases like ‘Needles. So many needles. Suck me mum.’ One of the advantages of having a carriage all to yourself is that you can moon at people in the next train - try it next time you’re in London. I’d previously felt sorry for ‘disadvantaged’ people, but now I’ve discovered how great it is being a vegetable, I’m gonna make a point of parking in disabled spaces from now on. I’ve talked to quite a few retards at work this week. Most of them seem to work for PR companies who specialise in sending out press releases that are so detached from reality, you need a couple of LSD tabs and a Prada handbag to understand them. Take ‘Supersalads’, a new food book from some guy who’s never shopped outside of Selfridge’s in his life. It includes such delightful everyday recipes as ‘Figs, lambs’ lettuce and tarragon [makes your skin feel sexy and smooth]… Duck breast with papaya and kiwi, quails’ eggs on cress with batons of finely chopped celery and thinly sliced radishes and a pot of celery salt.’ Er, I think I’ll just stick with that bit of lettuce you get in a Big Mac if you don’t mind. And what is the obsession with including ridiculous statistics to back up your ridiculous product? Did you know that 59% of gay men would consider cosmetic dentistry? No, me neither, but I’ll keep it in mind should I ever feel the need to dazzle the other side with my ultra-white teeth. I was searching through the Men’s Lifestyle section [read: gay magazines] in Selfridge’s this afternoon, desperately trying to find a title exclusively for lesbians. If anyone knows of one, please let me know. What do lady-friendly ladies do when they want to find other like-minded ladies? I wasn’t looking for me, of course. I was gonna get it for my girlfriend, something to go with the semen-encrusted sock she would be getting on Valentine’s Day. I had taken out my last twenty pounds, and was determined to find something nice in a store where even the gift tags seemed to start at £30. After half an hour of drifting around like a goldfish rediscovering his castle, I gave up and went off to the cigar room to enquire about whether any budding Ms Lewiskys had been in lately. I passed the cigarette section, with jars of rolling tobacco that read like ice-cream flavours; Black Cherry, Vanilla and Mixed Citrus, and entered the specially humidified cigar room. If the idea of sucking on long brown things appeals to you, this is the place to come to. I grilled the assistant about all manner of cigar trivia, and left the room feeling like something of an expert on the subject. You know, the best way to smoke a cigar is to swill the smoke around in your mouth, maybe exhale 95% of it, and just take in that little bit so you can savour the taste. Or alternatively, you can put your dick on it and get your intern to suck you off. The most expensive cigars were £60 apiece, though obviously you were paying for a product that had been lovingly aged for ten years until it was ripe like a schoolgirl. I also enquired about which cigars would make the best blunts. All of them, apparently. After such a display of decadence, I felt it was only fitting to go to the Fine Wines section and look at more impossibly extravagant collectors’ items; Nebuchadnezzars of Moet & Chandon, priced at £950, a 1997 bottle of Screaming Eagle - possibly the most expensive wine in the world - at £2,300. But then, 97 was a good year of course. It was for me anyway; teacher-pupil sex is an amazing learning experience. Back on the train, I ran a quick finance check: eight pounds and twenty-three pence, which had to cover my meals for the next four weeks. It wasn’t looking good, so I did the only thing I could in the circumstances; went to the pub and threw three quid in the bandit. I hadn’t gambled since Friday, and was missing the pleasure more than sex. I won four back before sensibly retiring. I don’t know much about maths, but I have a feeling I’ll be selling weed on the streets of Camden by Friday. Or maybe I’ll try getting a job as a male escort: ‘21-year-old, 6ft 1”, striking profile, well-mannered, shoots his bolt in 30 seconds.’ Any takers?
9 February 2002
According to TheSpark.com’s latest personality test, I am 37% lazy. I’m not sure what that means exactly, but I can safely say that there must be a lot of guys out there playing GTA 3 and eating more pizza than an Ethiopian with the munchies. This is a guy who’d rather sleep than make out with his girlfriend, who’d rather land one on, rather than in his girlfriend’s mum (though there’s a reason for that), this a guy who can only wear his watch on one wrist because the other one’s over-developed. If I was any lazier, I’d be wearing an incontinence nappy so I could drink and gamble 24/ 7. As I scribble these sad facts in my notebook, I am lying in bed in my boxershorts, an overfilled bin sitting next to me. Because I can’t be assed getting out of bed when I need to lynch the llama (my one can spit very far), I’ve used the same sock the last four nites in a row. The routine is simple; I think about my sister, I get hard, I take out Dennis The Menace (that’s the sock, by the way) and I fill him to the top. When I become the minister for health education, I’m going to introduce a ‘Use A Clean Sock’ campaign, with free Sock Exchanges in every computer games shop. The weird thing about cum is that when it’s pumping into someone’s orifice, there’s enough there to feed the 5,000 and still have change to create a monster wet patch, but once it’s dried, it just disappears. I call it the See No Semen Effect. I’ve promised to send the sock to my girlfriend for a Valentine’s Day present – her mum’s getting the other one. It might sound like a gross thing to do, but they’ll just be grateful that it’s not going in their hair for once. That reminds me – it’s only a few weeks until my birthday. I’ll soon be making another ‘Countdown to Blowjob’ calendar. It’s so exciting! I got a bit of a shock today when I saw the cover of this week’s Real – the lead article was ‘Why I’ll never give oral sex again’. Or in other words, ‘Why I’ll never get laid again’. Sue French, a 34-year-old, has realised for the first time that ‘Giving oral gratification doesn’t turn me on. So what is the point?’ Well neither does walking the dogs (not usually anyway) but it still has to be done. At least Sue’s demands aren’t too unreasonable – ‘All I want is to be seduced into bed and once there, I want it to be my body that’s worshipped.’ Er, that’s nice Sue but I think I’ll give your mother a call – she might be saggier but she’s never refused a toke on my chipolata. Don’t get the wrong impression about this woman though, she’s not totally frigid. Look: ‘Of course I enjoy foreplay as much as the next woman…’ Hang on, there’s got to be a catch. Ah, here it is ‘..but only when it’s being done to me.’ Apparently oral sex is too much hard work. Well so is normal sex, but I can easily cum on your tits and fall asleep if you’d like. And listen up girls: ‘If a man is only interested in you for your oral technique, it really ain’t gonna last.’ Well I’ve been with my girlfriend for two years and she’s never complained about me using her as a Dyson. I’m still in love with those lips. Other gems of wisdom from Susie include ‘The male sexual organ is only truly interesting in its ability to help make children and engender orgasms’ and ‘What is so liberating about kneeling in front of a man?’ Nothing baby, but it sure feels good. You know, it’s obvious why men like fellatio – ‘It feeds into their fantasy of themselves as a sex god.’ Well, that and it’s a quick way to get emptied without breaking a sweat. The reason for Sue’s trauma soon becomes apparent, however; ‘It’s more dangerous than you think. I’ve lost count of the ‘sperm in my eyes’ tales ending in trips to casualty.’ God, tell me about it. My girlfriend gets so pissed off when I wheel her into A & E every Friday nite. Did you know we’ve got a platinum account with Optrex and because of us, the Family Planning Clinic in Aberdeen have started giving out safety goggles?
Sue, there’s some news I’m gonna have to break to you gently. I don’t know how to put this, but going down on girls ain’t that much fun either. I know it’s hard to believe, but trust me – they’re not called fishy flaps without reason. And have you looked at your vagina recently? (Cos I’m sure no-one else has.) The female sexual organs are about as attractive as a used tampon. But that doesn’t stop me from making my pilgrimage to the breeding grounds of the tuna fish once a year. In future Sue, heed the advice of this t-shirt: ‘If you don’t like oral sex, keep your mouth shut.’
8 February 2002
I got crabs last nite. No, seriously. And it happened in a restaurant of all places. I’d seen Rasa Samudra while flicking through some magazines at work - it was listed in the Independent’s top 50 seafood restaurants. With my love for all things fishy, I just had to check it out. The crab had been recommended and, being the crazy up-for-anything-for-a-laugh elevator surfing guy that I am, I dedided to give it a shot. My victim arrived dressed in all his glory, and a fine sight it was. He was accompanied by a mean-looking pair of torture instruments; a double-ended set of metal pincers, let's call them a nut-cracker on crack, and a long spatula that looked better suited to taking smear tests. This was when the problems started. I might pretend to be cultured sometimes, but when it came down to it, I was just a dirty McDonalds-frequenting Aberdonian. No-one had told me that there was an etiquette for eating crab. If my food wasn’t served with ketchup and between a bun, I got confused. The question was, should I try and work it out or should I admit that I didn’t have a clue before I made an even bigger fool of myself? When I realised that I didn’t even know which end of the pincers to use, I gave up and called the waiter. ‘You don’t know how to use these?’ He looked at me incredulously, like my girlfriend did the one time I offered to go down on her. I soon learned that the correct way to eat a crab is to use the pincers to crack the shell open and then the knitting needle thing to scrape out the good bits. This was all very good in theory, but how was I going to manage this without redecorating the flock wallpaper? If I'd been a betting man - hang on, I am - I’d have had a tenner on the crab ending up on the carpet. I know I’d have been trying to escape - getting eaten in your own shell was bad enough, without suffering the indignity of being eaten by a complete novice who liked to make jokes about STD’s. After a few attempts, I had begun to master the crab game, and was quite enjoying getting my hands dirty; the fact that most diners could have caught and boiled their own shellfish in the same time didn’t bother me. It puzzled though why posh people would choose such a messy dish; perhaps it was the closest they ever got to dirty food games. After fifteen minutes, I had conquered the crab, and the tablecloth and every napkin in the West End. OK, so my dinner might be cold by now and have more shell than a tortoise, but I was proud of my achievment nevertheless. In future though, I’ll stick to watching my girlfriend perform her lobster trick. It’s much more satisfying and twice as fishy.
7 February 2002
When Real's Lifestyle assistant sent me off to find a lemon, I thought all my ejaculations had come at once. How nice of her to let me scour the streets looking for a fine lesbian before enticing her back to the office to play with the girls. It was only when I looked at the shopping list and saw the words 'orange' and 'kiwi' that the penny finally dropped, as did everything else. I'd never felt so tricked in my entire life, except for that time I went to meet a girl I'd been chatting to online and... actually, never mind. I find supermarkets confusing at the best of times; you go in for a doughnut and end up with three tubes of KY, some spray cream and a girl named Jakki. How do you choose a packet of photogenic biscuits from the hundreds that are available? And what constitutes a traditional chocolate biscuit - is it entirely coated in chocolate, half coated, finger-shaped or circular? I stood there in a daze for five minutes before choosing the packet I had selected in the first place.
Back at the office, Julie and Hannah were debating underwear. They were going out to the Jasmine Awards, some kind of rubbing shoulders with people in shoulderless dresses ceremony. Most of the guests had probably started their make-up routine three days in advance. I'm sure the girls' outfits would have been approved of by Mrs Hudson - on Friday, I'd discovered her letter in which she complained bitterly about women who wore men's clothing. Her advice for independent women around the world is 'Leave the jeans and trousers where they belong, in the kitchen or at the seaside.' Yes, Mrs Hudson. The doctor will be with you shortly. Just when you thought the stupidity of menopausal women couldn't get any greater, I encountered the dreaded animal rights activists who were complaining about the treatment of that most intelligent of creatures, the goldfish. 'I was shocked to see in an article of yours 'Is Feng Shui just a good tidy up?' that you were condoning and even encouraging the keeping of goldfish in a bowl. This has been proven to be not only cruel but extremely boring for the fish. [I'll make sure I torture my fish in an entertaining manner next time.] I think you should think more carefully and perhaps undertake comprehensive research in future before you venture into the subject of petcare again.' Phew. Just as I was starting to feel guilty for that time I forgot to feed Goldie before I went out, I found Judith's letter in which she reminds us all that 'Fish are sentient beings who deserve our compassion.' Remember kids - a fish is for life, not just for dinner. I don't wish to sound like an abusive red-necked Army general here, but these women really should get laid more often, even if it's just with their pets. The top prize for having too much time on their hands goes to J S Cooper, who devotes every waking hour to bombarding Real with her missives on life as a female. Like reading out a rapist's string of previous convictions to the horror of the packed court-room, the comments scrawled across J S's letters get harsher with every turn of the page. It starts off innocently enough with 'This woman has written before' but quickly escalates to '6th time this person has written', and finally 'Serial letter nutter'. I hope I never end up like that; imagine writing about the same subject day after day - you wouldn't catch me doing that.
6 February 2002
I found conclusive proof today that Carol Vorderman is a fox, despite what some jealous females might say. The cover of the Daily Express’s Saturday magazine had a picture of my favourite mother with the headline ‘Brainteaser - How Carol Vorderman transformed herself into the thinking man’s sex symbol’. (Or in my case, the wanking man’s sex symbol.) The stuffy Express got quite explicit inside, describing her as ‘the thinking man’s crumpet.’ Dirty old men - she’s mine! Carol herself defends our open relationship, pointing out that ‘When you hit 40 why should you stop wearing short dresses? Who’s to say what’s right and what’s wrong?’ She also mentions our secret fetish; ‘Too right I want to wear tight leather pants!' You tell them girl. She carefully omitted the bit about me spanking her ass, probably in case the kids read it. But then I’m sure they’ve heard us anyway. God, I love it when Carol makes me perform oral tests - if my mum was this dirty I’d be at home right now. Thanks to Mrs Vorderman, I’ve discovered a solution to my two sexual problems; premature ejaculation and an over-sized penis. The answer lies, quite literally, in condoms. Trojan’s Extended Pleasure has been specially designed for guys who are ‘quick on the draw.’ I don’t know which sadist decided to lubricate them with TCP, but I can honestly say I’ve never came early while wearing one. In fact I’ve never came at all. I’ve also started using Trojan’s Magnum XL, which is 30% larger than the average condom. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to treat both problems at the same time so I either cum too quickly because it feels like I’m in a sleeping-bag or don’t cum at all because the circulation in my dick’s been cut off. If any of you guys are interested by the way, you can also get LifeStyles’ Snugger Fit which is designed for the smaller fellow. I suggest using mail order. And having sex with the lights out. Not that I’d know or anything. It’s sad, isn’t it, how men brag about the size of their penises. You don’t get women doing that. With their breasts, I mean. Maybe I ought to brag for them; my girlfriend has the best breasts I’ve ever cum across - not too big, not too small, plenty of cleavage to suffocate a man. And the great thing about her family is that the females all have the same breast size. Whenever I’m buying underwear for my girlfriend, I always try it out on her mum first to make sure it fits. On the negative side, they all have their periods at the same time. Thank heavens for Carol Vorderman. I often think of how lucky I am to have gotten with such dirty women, especially after discovering how frigid some of Real’s readers are. Karen, for example, writes ‘Congratulations on your report on masturbation. I became very upset when I found [my husband] masturbating. I spent the whole night crying.’ Yeah, my girlfriend nearly dumped me the last time she caught me doing that. Though that might have had more to do with the fact that I had her sister’s school foto in the other hand. One guy, in the original article, describes how disgusted he was when a girl he was driving home started masturbating in his car. Hello? There’s a hot chick taking a self-guided tuna-boat tour right next to you and you’re not even slightly hard? Unless it was his mum he was driving home. These people make me sick; why do such losers always get propositioned by MILFs, lesbians and dirty sluts wanting threesomes? It ain’t happened to me once, and god knows I’ve been trying. Well, there was this one time with my girlfriend’s mum, but I guess I initiated that so it doesn’t count. A final word from a Real reader then, to leave you with a nice thought for the day: ‘Dear Sir/Madam, I am writing to enquire if I can send you a short and brief story of myself as I am a transexual...’ The assistant editor’s comment, scribbled across the letter was equally short and brief: ‘NO!’