Sex, Lies and Videotape……
Sex….
Alfreda and I watched ‘The Sex Inspectors’ on Channel 4 last night. It was all about a couple from Brighton – they were having trouble ‘between the sheets’….
Basically the hubby was a bit of a ‘wham bam man’ ….. in a straight in, furious activity and fast asleep kind of way. His wife was to say the least, a bit frustrated.
The lady Sex Inspector interrogated the hubby. He confessed to the entire nation that he didn’t do foreplay. He wasn’t that bothered about sex at all really.
The lady Sex Inspector chastised him for being so selfish. "You simply must do foreplay" she shrilled.
Alfie the Sexpert suddenly felt all superior.
Alfie the Sexpert with his magic touch and his encyclopaedic knowledge of womanly erogenous zones. His instinctive awareness of the wants, needs and carnal desires of a woman gained through a lifetime of experience. That and taking surreptitious dips into 'The Joy of Sex' from the top shelf of W.H.Smith's adult book section during the 1980's...... is feeling well confident.
Alfie the Sexpert with smug countenance on his boat, turns to Alfreda and says "Goodness me, you’ve got to have foreplay haven’t you…. Fancy not bothering with foreplay, it’s no wonder she’s frustrated!"
Alfreda agrees "Yes, absolutely. I mean without the foreplay, sex would only last a few seconds"……
Women can be very, very cruel.
Lies…..
So, Obergruppenfuhrer Blair has come to rescue of one of his beleaguered Ministers.
The Very Rev’ has declared that David Blunkett was "an honest man of impeccable integrity"…….
Nah, I don’t think that’s right at all really.
A man who conducts an illicit affair and gets his lover twice up the duff in the process. A man that leaks the affair and the question of paternity to that rag of rags ‘The News of the World’ in order to put pressure on his former lover is not an honest man of impeccable integrity.
Blunkett, you are thoughtless, selfish, vacuous, arrogant, self obsessed, power mad and not in control of your trousers....
and Videotape……
So VHS is dead.
As dead as a Dodo.
As dead as David Blunkett’s political career.
As dead as Dubbya’s brain cells.
As dead as BetaMax……..
My bountiful collection of tapes include the entire series episodes of ‘All Creatures Great and Small’, the ‘Winter Olympics of 1992’ - some dodgy 'adult' vids of the '70's with curly-permed female babes and male mullet-haired Germans saying "Hmmm dat isss gut, ja?"... ‘Heartbeat, the early years’ with Nick Berry and Ian McShane’s ‘Lovejoy’… every single episode of it - plus the last ever broadcast that TV-AM made …. What the hell was I thinking of?
Suggestions please on what to do with 536 video cassettes..
Monday, November 29, 2004
I’ve got IBS – it’s official…..
It’s official - I’ve got it.
Perhaps I’ve always had it.
It could be terminal.
If I have to sit through another night of 'entertainment' like I just have, it definitely will be.
Final confirmation came when ITV’s mega ‘Cadgathon’ of a Saturday evening schedule finally registered ‘red’ on my irritometer.
Four programmes – one after another all asking for the viewers to ‘phone in and vote for their favourites.
6:55 The ‘X-Factor’ – phone in and vote for your favourite egomaniacal pub singer.
8:00 Millionaire – phone in and fund Chris Tarrant’s lavish lifestyle.
9:00 The ‘X-Factor’ again – phone in, forget the pub singers, they’re crap. – Simon Cowell needs a new Ferrari Spyder though.
9:45 to 11:15 I’m a celebrity, get me out of here – phone in and reinvent some Z-list nobody that you’ve never heard of – and couldn’t give a toss if they get rampant widgety willie or not.
That’s over 4 hours solid of people on ITV imploring the viewing public to phone in - at costs of up to £1.50 a call.
By 9:00 I’d had enough and turned it off – before I shoved my size fourteens through the cathode. The bile had risen, the ire had metamorphosed to steam and was venting to atmosphere via my earholes.
Thanks ITV. Thanks very much for my IBS.
But I don’t think I’m alone.
Thanks to ITV, I reckon Irritable Bastard Syndrome has reached epidemic proportions.
I need to phone someone.
.
It’s official - I’ve got it.
Perhaps I’ve always had it.
It could be terminal.
If I have to sit through another night of 'entertainment' like I just have, it definitely will be.
Final confirmation came when ITV’s mega ‘Cadgathon’ of a Saturday evening schedule finally registered ‘red’ on my irritometer.
Four programmes – one after another all asking for the viewers to ‘phone in and vote for their favourites.
6:55 The ‘X-Factor’ – phone in and vote for your favourite egomaniacal pub singer.
8:00 Millionaire – phone in and fund Chris Tarrant’s lavish lifestyle.
9:00 The ‘X-Factor’ again – phone in, forget the pub singers, they’re crap. – Simon Cowell needs a new Ferrari Spyder though.
9:45 to 11:15 I’m a celebrity, get me out of here – phone in and reinvent some Z-list nobody that you’ve never heard of – and couldn’t give a toss if they get rampant widgety willie or not.
That’s over 4 hours solid of people on ITV imploring the viewing public to phone in - at costs of up to £1.50 a call.
By 9:00 I’d had enough and turned it off – before I shoved my size fourteens through the cathode. The bile had risen, the ire had metamorphosed to steam and was venting to atmosphere via my earholes.
Thanks ITV. Thanks very much for my IBS.
But I don’t think I’m alone.
Thanks to ITV, I reckon Irritable Bastard Syndrome has reached epidemic proportions.
I need to phone someone.
.
