You know, I should have called my last post “Sistas are doing it for themselves”, given my cry for porn use equality. In any case, the tenuous link here is with this article I saw in The Independent, which suggests having a sister is good for you.

Being brought up with a sister makes people more balanced, ambitious and optimistic, research suggests.

My brother is only 6 and I think, aside from Grandpa, he is the one family member who is a positive influence on me. If anything, he makes me more balanced and optimistic, not the other way round. I am pretty sure, if I had been included in this research I would have been one of those statistical anomolies, thrown out for skewing the stats.

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Nothing bring out our hypocritical puritanical streak like a good sex scandal. We especially like ones that involve politicians so we can get particularly indignant about it all. Imagine our communal joy when it was uncovered that Home Secretary Jacqui Smith’s husband had not only watched some late night adult movies, but had the cheek to get them charged to the taxpayer on his wife’s expenses. Oh sweet schadenfreude! Not only are our political class corrupt and inept, but they are also dirty, disgusting perverts!

Last weekend I was lounging in my bedroom with the one and only GingaDale ambivalently watching some porn he had brought over, when somehow we got onto the topic of pornography – don’t ask me how it happened – and he was telling me about a radio phone in he had heard earlier in the week that was about whether it is moral to use porn when you are in a relationship. Naturally, being a radio phone in, it had to cleverly get complete loons in from both ends of the spectrum, from the “I would show my kids porn” to the “genital love is supposed to be special, pornography degrades this”.

It is episodes like this that prove what a complete hangover we have from the body hating Judeo-Christian tradition, with its screamishness and moralising about sex and sexuality. The people who complain the loudest are normally the ones buggering schoolboys on the wasteground behind Morrisons, being whipped by a dominatrix on a weekend or watching “Chicks With Dicks 5” whilst their spouse is out.

I also wish these angry voices of the common man would not assume that pornography was the preserve of dirty old men. Yes, of course it is mainly a ‘guy thing’, bless their visual tendencies, but increasingly, as the stigma attached to dirty movies has receded and the internet has made material available on demand, it is being used in relationships and also by women. I sometimes like to indulge in watching porn myself; you know once in a while and I am either feeling too lazy or jaded with the real thing to go out and locate some charitable manwhore, I will watch some porn and get off, well, assuming I can stop myself laughing at the porn cliches of course.

Should I feel bad about this? Of course not. Would it be a problem in a relationship? Potentially it could, if you feel it has to be your dirty secret that you cannot share with your partner, and certainly if you were a porn addict, then yeah, like any addiction, you are going to have problems whether you are in a relationship or not.

“You up for some special ‘genital love’ then?” Ginga asked me.

“Going to have to pass on that”

“Well, you do realise you shouldn’t masturbate to porn anymore right?”

“I have one message to people who tell me I can’t masturbate and you know what that is. They need to….”

“Go fuck themselves!” we immaturely shouted in unison.

I was thinking of a Wankers Of The World Unite campaign, but then I saw they already had united

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On his recent visit to the UK for an international spending competition, right wing Obama obsessives were left smarting by yet another breach in protocol, sure to leave the ‘special relationship’ irreparably damaged. After all the furore over Giftgate and the unforgivable sight of seeing our Queen molested by a black woman[!], it can now be exclusively revealed that Obama did not even make a detour north to sleep with me! And we thought Biden was prone to gaffes. Gordon Brown’s press poodle played down the incident:

“It is regrettable that the President could not leave the G20 summit to satisfy the carnal cravings of a woman that so clearly desires him, but it must be remembered we were in the process of saving the world, and against that backdrop I am sure people can understand that he felt it important to stay here in London…I mean, not that London, but the city of London.”

Behind the scenes though, British officials were said to be furious, one of them stating brusquely:

“One of the things we take the most pride in here in the UK is that we have the finest drunken wenches anywhere in the world, and, let me tell you, they are not fussy about putting out no matter who the visiting dignatory is. I feel President Obama is basically saying, “I prefer those hairy, sophisticated women off the continent, or more like those dirty Arabs.”

Lon was unavailable for comment, but did release a terse press statement through her agent:

“Fuck you Obama. Hugo Chavez never treat me like this!”

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Another day, another expenses scandal, another government minister blatantly shafting the taxpayers up the arse. This time it is Tony McNulty; the kind of minister so sicophantic that he can be be wheeled out regularly onto those hostile media sets to swera black is white and up is down for the government. That might describe most ministers who have climbed the greasy pole to a ministerial position, but I think McNulty actually enjoys being an egregious prick. He is, picking up a quote from the Coen Bros film Miller’s Crossing, “Mr Inside-Outsky just like some God-damned Bolshevik picking up his orders from Yegg Central”. McNulty is typical of New Labour ministers; arrogant, two-faced, unapologetic and shameless.

What really pisses me off about this entire expenses thing, after all there are bigger problems to talk about right, and McNulty’s indiscretion is a mere £60k, which compared to the bankers and hedge funds is small beer right? Perhaps so, but here is what really sticks in my craw about this latest one:

  1. The McNumptyisation of politics: Public cyncism is corrosive. Most MPs do try to do a good job and are not shovelling taxpayer’s money into their bank account.
  2. McNulty basically claimed for an allowance for a second property that was around 10 miles from Parliament and let his parents live in it, even though the house he was living in with his wife was only 3 miles from Parliament. What does he say in his defence? “I have not broken any rules”. Absolutely shameless. It’s like someone getting away with a crime on a legal technicality, whilst smirking that they got away with it. Where is any kind of independent common sense check on these claims? Do we not even ask for a postcode, or some reason why he would need to claim for a second house when on paper is appears unnecessary?
  3. He said he had stopped claiming the allowance now after having £60k out of the taxpayers and then had the cheek to turn round and say that he could understand how people may see his allowance claim as ‘odd’, and that MP expense claims of that nature should be looked at. This kind of blaise attitude to being caught effectively stealing, and making it sound like WE should be grateful he has stopped his thieving ways, it is just completely disgraceful. And odd? What the hell is he talking about, it does not look odd, it looks fucking criminal? It looks like you are displaying all the ungrateful entitlement of a spoilt medieval monarch, you tosser.

In days of yore this wanker would have been metaphorically strung up my his bollocks by his Cabinet peers, admonished in private by the party leader ashamed to be associated with such a money grabbing chancer and would have the next day been tendering their resignation with full apologies to the country and an offer to pay the money back. What do we get? “It’s alright, I am not claiming it anymore anyway. I can appreciate it might look ‘odd’, but obviously my blatant abuse of the system merely flags up the need to review and revise the rules that have allowed me to be such a greedy bastard.”

Not good enough. Not by a long shot.

You know that film Disturbia? You know with Shia Desperation [cute, but clueless]? The one that was a remake of a film made by a fat silhouette? Well, for the uninformed and those too lazy to read the links, it is about this dude who gets to thinking that his neighbour is some psycho serial killer on account of some strange shit going down at his house. It later transpires that he isn’t, but then, in time honoured tradition he is; unless you were planning on seeing the film and don’t want the surprise ruining, in which case, I don’t know whether he is or not.

Phew! Glad we cleared that up. I live in a semi-detached house; the neighbours in the house we are attached to are complete loons. Not serial killers, just complete OCD freaks. I think they must have met at some support group, because they are always cleaning the windows and hoovering – always with the fucking hoovering. She is a bit madder than him. She has a lazy eye and wears a clear plastic headscarf all the time no matter what the weather.

I remember a couple of years back, when her husband was still working, I got to the bus stop and she was waiting there for a bus, her plastic headscarf like a resplendent crest in the bright spring sun. Of course, I ignored her, my iPOD cranked up, my look, casually aggressive to anyone over forty raised on a daily tabloid diet of ‘teenager terrors’. The bus was late and she kept pacing up to the timetable and shaking her head; eventually she stopped in front of me and mouthed something; I was forced to remove my headphones and ask what she had said, as she was stood in front of me looking impatient.

“Do you kow if the bus is coming?” she asked.

I turned and looked down the street, “Err. No. I am sure it will be here soon.”

“You that strange girl from next door aren’t you?”

Mad people have so little tact. “Yes. That’s me….strange girl.”

“You have our bin.” she said forcefully.

“I’m sorry?”

“You Dad mixed them up last week, you have our bin. What are you going to do about it?”

“Errr…ok. I’ll change them round I guess.”

“You do that!”

There was then a long pause, where she went back to looking up the street, before turning back to me and asking, “You know Tony L at number 45?”

I nodded slowly.

“He a tosser,” she continued matter of factly, and then noted the bus was coming, “Oh thank God. It’s here. See? See!”

“Yeah I see it.”

As the bus pulled up and the doors flapped open, she turned to me before getting on, and taking into account I was at my most punky on that particular day, she said to me, “You should consider less make up. You are a pretty girl.”

She got on the bus and since then I have not spoken to her. Mostly I just get annoyed at the prolonged hoovering on a Saturday and Sunday morning, which on more than one occasions as caused me to shout from my crib, “Stop fucking hoovering already!” My Mum always collars me about it, “Lon, please don’t shout at the neighbours ok?” Adding on of her favorite phrases, “It’s not very lady like y’know.” Lady like? What the hell is that? Absent from my vocabulary is what it is.

It’s the same with my Grandad, although he always employs such archaic phrases with a wicked twinkle in his eye, like he knows my Faustian trysts are the complete antithesis of the Austenite social niceities. Marry Mr Darcy? I don’t think so. Jump Mr Darcy’s bones? I am there, with a bottle of tequila, a pack of cigs and some condoms! My Grandad, the only grown up that I come close to divulging some glimpses of my tangled personal relationships, will say things like, “So you plan to woo this gentleman then?” or “Are you and him courting yet?” It is strange how when dressed up in the language of a 19th century novel, even the most sordid acts can be recast in a heroic and noble light. My Grandad makes me feel like I am on some grand quest, conquering foe after foe in the search for the perfect intimate moment. Finally into the lair of the the on who claims to be incorruptible; it shall take all your womanly charms to arouse his carnal desires fair maiden.

My Mum and I have just started talking again. When we have had a bad argument for a while we don’t talk and then we leave each other notes. The last one to me read

“Sandwiches in the fridge. REMEMBER we have a social engagement at the weekend and you still need to buy a nice dress. You CANNOT go in jeans or one of your skirts. Pick up Michael from Grans please. Mum xxx”

We are going to a wedding at the weekend. One of my Dad’s idiot brothers is marrying some chav from Doncaster. It’s his second marriage and fourth kid already. Sometimes when I look around my family and my estate, I get this kind of uncontrollable throwback support for some good old fashioned eugenics. By letting fuckwits breed we are adding to our carbon footprint and national debt, whilst simultaneously lowering the average intelligence. My Mum has to recast me for these weddings as Little Ms Jane Bennett; some family feud that started over who got some carriage clock as part of an inheritance, or some such shit, means I cannot give any hint of delinquency or rebellion. My Mum will tug me into these little pockets of well to do female relatives and introduce me, “Oh Lon you remember Aunty such and such and your second cousin…”. Oh, but here is the fly well and truly in the ointment this time; I am legally entitled to drink now.

Before we started communicating via post-sticks, my Mum dropped on me, out of the blue, that our neighbour, the husband that is, was suffering from Alzeheimers. She has been talking to the couples daughter seemingly, who had been on the verge of tears as she related this news to my Mum. I suddenly felt that deep cold pity for Mrs Hooverville; you know the kind of pity you get where you feel guilty afterwards because you judge it to be an inauthentic emotional spasm? It’s a projected pity. It made me feel sick because its the same feeling I get whenever I see an ex-friend of mine who was crippled in an accident. I was not responsible, but something makes me feel like I should be.

Now every small event is magnified. I see Mrs H struggling through her front door, burdened down with shopping from Lidl and I immediatly feel guilty, sad and pull of pity. I have been thinking of N quite a bit since my Mum told me this news and what happened to him. It is strange how completely unconnected things can stir up emotions. I have started wearing less make up, I check the bins to make sure my Dad has not mixed them up and I smile and nod at her when I see her. What else can I do?

I really have tried to expunge this song from my brain stem, but it is so fucking infectious: damn you Hugo!

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Part of an ongoing series that reveals the many unusual search engine combinations that brings visitors to my blog doorstep. Here is the latest  collection.

A big bird on drugs?! I am not *that* big

A big bird on drugs?! I am not *that* big

I am thinking that these two people would have been just a little disappointed, especially the latter one. The ‘big bird drugs’ brough them here because of my Sesame Street related jibes in this post. If they were looking for new tranqulisers for their ostrich farm, or a chubby crack whore, then sadly they would have been misdirected.

The latter selection of search terms is even more intriguing; it brought them to my door because of my referring to Obama as “the sexiest, pimp-daddyiest politician of all time” in this now legendary post. But what were they searching for exactly? Does one detect the closeted homosexual homophobe of some rural American backwater here? Simultaneously hating Obama, but actually wanting him as their ‘gay fag pimp’? “Oh Barry Hussein…oh yeah, do me like a stuck pig..oh yeah” “Ma, Cletus is doing the Obama thing again in his room!”

I did a few weeks back have someone brought to the page via the search string “underclass family”; since when did search engines get so insightful?!

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