Desert Island Dicks

April 25th 2006

Following my post on homosexuals the other day Paul Quayle of Brentford has e-mailed me, accusing me of being a homophobe. I’m not, it’s just that I can’t see the attraction of anal copulation. Nor indeed can I imagine how such a ridiculous notion was ever contemplated. It can only have been conceived out of desperation, probably by a man cast away with another man on an uninhabited desert island, somewhere in the Pacific Ocean……..

FIRST MAN: (INCREDULOUS) Can you do what?

SECOND MAN: Put my dick up your bottom?

FIRST MAN: You’re joking of course?


FIRST MAN: You really want to put your dick up my bottom?



SECOND MAN: Well I’m feeling randy and, in the absence of any women, I thought…..

FIRST MAN: You thought what?

SECOND MAN: Well I thought that your anus would make a very good substitute vagina.

FIRST MAN: A good substitute vagina? There’s shit up there.

SECOND MAN: I don’t mind.

FIRST MAN: I mind. Any shit up there is meant to come down not be poked farther up. Jesus, the nerve of you!

SECOND MAN: Please. You can do it to me afterwards.

FIRST MAN: What? What would I want with my dick all covered in shit?

SECOND MAN: Well if that’s all that’s bothering you you’ll be able to wash it off after. There’s the whole of the Pacific Ocean to wash it off in. It would only be like washing off sperm and vaginal juices after having sex with a woman.

FIRST MAN: Sperm and vaginal juices don’t smell like shit.

SECOND MAN: You could hold your nose.

FIRST MAN: Look, life may be a little boring right now but I can still find better things to do with my time than stand here washing my dick in the Pacific Ocean with one hand while I’m holding my nose with the other.

SECOND MAN: You might like it.

FIRST MAN: I might like washing my dick in the….?

SECOND MAN: No. Having my dick up your bottom.

FIRST MAN: I might enjoy shitting glass. Come to think of it it might be very similar to shitting glass.

SECOND MAN: Oh I’m sure it wouldn’t. Please?


SECOND MAN: Why not?

FIRST MAN: Because it will hurt.

SECOND MAN: No it won’t, I’ve only got a small dick.

FIRST MAN: Small dick my arse!

SECOND MAN: Ooh I thought you’d never ask!

Last of the Summer Walking Frame

April 24th 2006

“There are three men with walking frames at the front door,” said The Trouble, with her expression of ‘And what have you been up to now?’ on her face.

I looked up from my Oldie magazine, trying to look unconcerned. “Oh yes?”

“What do they want?”

I spread my hands. “Search me. Perhaps they’re collecting for something?”

“Well if it’s walking frames they’re collecting they’re having a lot of success. See to them would you.”

I went to the front door. Abreast of each other were Mr Jeffs, Mr Barnaby and Mr Ross. Standing behind their walking frames they looked like a small football crowd. How had they known where I lived?

“Mr Atkins told us where you lived,” said Mr Jeffs, as if on cue. I made a mental note to give Atkins Down The Road a piece of my mind the next time we met; they’d obviously called on him and now he was making me have some of what they’d given him.

“Why haven’t you been turning up for training?” asked Mr Ross?

“I’ve decided to change my event.” Well I had to say something.

I thought quickly. They would no doubt want to know which event I’d switched to. The Downhill Stairlift was the first paraplegic-like competition that sprang to mind. I would tell them I was already in training for it and had already got very close to Thora Hird’s long-standing record. But hang on a minute. Downhill Stairlift? Wouldn’t that be a Winter Paralympics event? Are there such a thing as the Winter Paralympics? Skiing down the side of a mountain at a hundred miles-an-hour is difficult enough as it is without being hampered by having only one arm or one leg or partial sight, so probably not.

“What event are you going in for then?” asked Mr Jeffs.

“Putting the Truss,” I said. “In fact I’m just off to the hospital for a new one, nice seeing you all again,” and with that I walked down the drive and out of their lives forever. I hope.


April 22nd 2006

The world, after threatening to for so long, has finally gone mad. According the today’s newspaper the Lord Chancellor and his staff will no longer be referring to homosexuals as homosexuals, as it may upset them. Instead they will refer to them as gay. For crying out loud, they should be doing exactly the opposite, refusing to call them gay and insisting on calling them homosexuals!

Until the homosexual fraternity appropriated the word gay its only dictionary definition was ‘happy and carefree’. I for one, and I know there are many more like me who hold a similar view, wish it had stayed that way.

Having dual definitions of the word can be misleading to say the least. For example I recently attended a revival of the musical ‘The Desert Song’, a show in which the song ‘The French Military Marching Song’ is part of the libretto. For those not familiar with the musical it’s the song in which one of the leading characters implores everyone else on stage to ‘Come boys, let’s all be gay boys’, an invitation which obviously means ‘Come boys, let’s all be happy and carefree’ and not ‘Come boys, let’s all be homosexuals’. However anyone in the audience under the age of thirty must have wondered, on completion of the song, why the rest of the cast didn’t pair up and disappear behind the sand dunes holding each other’s hands.

Let me say without going any further that I have nothing against homosexuals. It is not my way, and never could be. Christ I once had a doctor poke his index finger up my bottom in search of my prostate gland and that was bad enough. But just because I don’t want to do what they do doesn’t mean to say that I don’t respect their right to do it, as they no doubt respect my right to engage in ‘normal’ sex. For who is to say that I am right and they are wrong? Not me, certainly. Although, if indeed there is a right and a wrong, and as one of the main features of ‘normal’ sex is procreation, I would maintain that until such time as someone is made pregnant by having a penis pump sperms up his rectum that the ‘normal’ method of having it is most certainly not the wrong one.

Having said that I am perfectly happy for homosexuals to go about their lives as they see fit. As I have already said, I have nothing against them. And hopefully I never will have anything against them. Especially my genitals. And excepting of course the fact that they have hijacked the word ‘gay’ for their exclusive use.

I have often asked myself why they found this necessary, for they already had words in abundance to describe themselves. Homo, bent, queer, to name but three. Brown hatter, pillow biter, shitstabber, to name three more. Shirtlifter, turd turner, uphill gardener, one who bats for the other side, one who swings the other way, nancy boy, poofter, pansy, willie woofter, the titles are legion.

Apparently though none of them were good enough and they had to pinch one of my words. But why did it have to be ‘gay’? If nothing else it is a contradiction in terms to use a word that means ‘happy and carefree’ since, for anyone other than a homosexual, one would be anything but ‘happy and carefree’ if one’s anal passage was being invaded by something which must feel to him like the business end of a baseball bat. Good, I’m glad I’ve got that off my chest.

Have a gay day. 

Mellor’s Garden

April 21st 2006

Today’s Brainteaser.

Old Mellor bought his garden many years ago and got it dirt cheap, probably because it was in the shape of a trapezium. The two diagonals of the trapezium divide the garden into four triangles each for vegetables, fruit, flowers and lawn. Mellor remembers that the area of each triangle is a whole number of square yards, that the lawn is 80 square yards in area, and that the vegetable garden is 45 Square yards in area.

Question. What the fuck is a trapezium?

 Answers in the Comments section please. 10 pounds for the first correct answer. The editor’s decision is final.

Answer to last week’s (April 14th) Brainteaser – Barearse.