almost witty

After a long fruitless frustrating Hulk-inducing day signing on and job hunting — you’d have thought it’d be dead easy to at least get a retail job in the run-up to Christmas — and then being given bad news by the bureaucratic mandarins at the job centre, it’s nice to come home to find the Doctor Who season 2 box set waiting for you in the post. Something I’d totally forgotten about. And even better, after five years of diligently collecting the odd point from ipoints.co.uk, it came for free! So that’s saved me £50…

Anyway, it arrives in a nice relatively restrained box set this time, which is much easier to fit into a DVD shelf than the huge monstrosity that was last year’s edition. Unless of course you get the amazon.co.uk special edition with the Cyberman helmet.

Now this is where I get a tad nerdy … the end credits for each episode appear to have been edited so that alongside the BBC Wales credit is one thanking the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. These, needless to say, didn’t appear on the transmitted episodes. I wonder why…

Now I just need to get an actual cinema ticket to Casino Royale - trickier than it would seem up here in North Wales - and life might be OK again.

Oh, and as for the long silence - I went off on a cruise around the Mediterranean with Miss R, and came back a stone heavier three weeks ago. Although it seems like three days ago…

Also, I’m trying to move this blog to another server (same domain name, different server) but it’s a tad trickier than I thought. Any advice from Wordpress / Dreamhost geniuses, perchance?

Geofftech’s surprise at the high number of circumcised men in the United States reminded me of this little anecdote.

On one of my holidays in the USA, I stayed at the cheapest hostel in San Francisco (somewhere down the Mission district) and got to know a few of the temporary residents. One of whom was a soft-spoken blonde American dude who was constantly touting around a guitar.

It was a bit of a surprise to me to find that he wasn’t in fact a Californian, but some other quiet part of the US. He was on his travels and had “settled” in San Francisco for want of something better to do, aside from composing songs and lusting after a German girl at the hostel.

So it came to pass we (quasi-Californian dude, German girl and a bunch of others) were in the kitchen, supping on a beer, when somehow the conversation turned to circumcision.

This sparked off a huge rant from the hitherto reasonably-quiet guitar person about how circumcision was evil, how it had been forced on him by his parents from birth, and how it was a savage denial of his “sexual rights”.

Not only that, he’d composed two songs about it. One of the worst things in life is being subjected to songs written by a complete stranger done acapella, with no beats or any recognisable hook, and yet being asked to appreciate it as you would the latest chart-topper. And after he performed his two songs about circumcision unasked, he looked at his surrounding audience (who were mostly international travellers) for a reaction. Most of them looked on blankly. Especially the German girl.

I think she left the next morning without offering her love to the guitarist. Wonder if that led to another savage song about the denial of sexual rights…

In the third decade of my life, I had foolishly thought I’d heard of most sexual tweaks/fetishes that were there. After all, I’ve been on the net for 12 years - and my first job involved reviewing erotic books for a living. Reading about a sci-fi erotica novel that features a phallus which changes your genitals and the liquid you fill into them (be it semen or vodka) at the flick of a dropdown rather opens your eyelids at the age of 21.

Plus there was this time I was on a date (shock! gasp!), and to while away a dull moment in the conversation, I asked her what the weirdest thing she’d done was. The usual response is sex on the beach or cinema or something similar.

Not this woman. She said she’d been a former heroin addict, and to make ends meet she’d become a coprophiliac prostitute/escort - essentially pooping into mens’ mouths (or tables) for money. Shame I never saw her again, really.

After that, I thought, what else can you do with poop in a sexual fetish fashion? Nothing, I thought. Then I stumbled across this post (after discovering that on a certain search engine, I’m in the top 20 entries for fisting for some reason). And now, yet again, I’m left marvelling that there’s still stuff to learn - and wondering how one realises that injecting poop into the skin induces a sexual thrill. If it does.

About 18 months ago, I made the mistake of deriding a local author’s claims of Cardiff multi-culturalism. He was kind enough to respond back, and to threaten to include me in his next book. Unfortunately, he carried out his threat.

Cardiff may be the capital city of Wales with 300,000 people but I seem to be (unfortunately) well connected. (A problem I never had in London). I seem exceptionally prevalent to having my own words thrown back at me by comparative strangers in Cardiff - and D mentioned that a friend of his had spotted the reference in the book, and asked if it was me.

Which propelled me into the nightmare scenario of being trapped in a Cardiff pub on New Years’ Eve, fending off questions about this sodding blog from well-meaning strangers and D.

I wrote this blog just for the hell of it and to make new friends, not to have to justify my opinions in a crowded Cardiff pub. There’s my virtual life, and my real life. Although lately, I have literally discoverd that every other conversation topic seems to revolve around something in the blog.

So I didn’t go to said pub in the end, and stayed in. Grrr. But then, I had one of my best New Years’ Eve nights watching the final episodes of Frasier, Friends, Seinfeld and Sex And The City on E4. Result!

As anyone who’s had the great fortune to sleep in the same room as me can testify (although I will deny it to my dying day), I can snore and sleep through anything. If an aeroplane was to crash into the Millennium Stadium, you can pretty much bet that I’d sleep through it and wake up to realise there’s a massive crater outside my window. I’ve slept through alarm clocks, people tickling me, everything. When I slumber, I slumber.

But not, apparently through the sounds of lesbians mating. I was pretty much solidly asleep until at 3am, I was woken by the sounds of someone having a fitting cough. At least I thought it was whooping cough. Then the sound became curiously elongated, and rising in pitch. With some accompanying pants. Putting two and two together, and remembering who I’d left on the couch when I went to bed after another unsatisfactory night with my lesbian friends in a lesbian bar watching lesbian foreplay (which seems to involve lesbians grappling each other as if wrestling, or punching each other in the arm), it was them pesky lesbians again.

After a few breathy moans, a couple of “Oh YEAH!!!”’s leading to high-pitched yelps, the sounds seemed to die down, and I was just left with the blissful white noise of the TV in the living room.

Then 5 minutes later, the moans started up again. For 10 minutes. Again, leading to the breathy moans and the high-pitched yelps. Then died down. Then started up again 5 minutes later. And so on.

So my sleep was rather fitful. When I emerged from my bedroom at 9am, the yelping lesbian emerged from her room, beaming from ear to ear. I mean, beaming. She was practically begging me to come and talk to her in the living room. And when she says “talk to me”, she means I should just sit back and listen while she luxuriously launches into a dramatic sunny monologue about just how beautiful life is today. All because she got a sodding shag. Admittedly a shag I’ve been encouraging for months, if only to give some people some happiness. Little did I know it’d stop me sleeping.

So I declined her unkind invitation, and tried to get back to sleep. Which didn’t work. So I decided to go into town for some “me” time. Whereupon the lesbians kept texting me with various invitations to go back and join them in lunch, dinner, food, and cinema. Which isn’t that unusual, aside from it happening 4 times over 3 hours. And women just need to understand that No sometimes means No!

Women just need to understand. Sometimes, we prefer to be alone when we shop for shoes and computer gadgets.