Friday, March 8, 2013

Shoe Club Monthly.

I guess you could call it a fetish for slingbacks. Must be, as I become aroused just typing the word. It's difficult to say when it started but I think it was probably in middle age. From what I've read it's not uncommon to develop this type of fixation later in life. Mules I would say come a close second, but there is just something so sensual about a slingback. The way they show off the heel of the foot but that strap providing restraint that seems to suggest 'bondage? why not...' Of course the foot is the thing really. A peep toe with a nice pedicure and one of the naughtier shades of red on the nails seals the deal. Any hard or yellow skin showing though is a turn off. But that's all about care and attention to detail. I've seen sixty year olds who are better turned out than most teenagers. I try not to be too leery or obvious in public but sometimes it's overpowering. I've followed someone around a grocery because I couldn't take my eyes off their splendorous footwear. Mostly I fill my craving off the internet. Not the specialist sites so much as regular online shoe shops. Porn's OK but I can just as easily get off on the Shoe Club monthly mailing. I don't see any harm in it to be honest and It's filled a hole in my life since I've been single again. Anyway, it's not as if I can do much about it. Maybe I wouldn't be this way if I'd worn them myself.

Buzz K

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Spit on her hand and make it shake.
Count on her fingers the number of days, weeks, months he’s been gone.
Dig up the glass from the garden and place it by your bed.
Watch the steel cool.
It doesn’t need to be true, I repeat.
And let the inventions lather under my scalp.
Under my tongue and nails.

Yawn so big your jaw can cradle the moon.
Swallow it whole and let its lavender glow fill your throat.
Stretch so far into the universe you can reach your heels.
Watch the meal cool.
It doesn’t need to be true, I repeat.
And let the serpent fidget inside my chest.
In and out of my knees and knuckles.

Place your feet in the wagon.
Count how many shoulders are gradually favoring the trees.
Stop looking for an electrical connection and lick your fingers.
Watch the moon cool.
It doesn’t need to be true, I repeat.
And let the red wheels carry my back.
Away from my nerves and hips.


Your Best Mate

Your best mate’s fucking awesome isn’t he? I can’t talk from a woman’s perspective. Maybe the female version’s just as good? Who knows, besides women, obviously? And any modern man who has a best mate who’s a bird can fuck right off. I went shoplifting with my best mate not shopping.
A best mate then. Someone who’s always there for you. Offers advice, Helps you when you’re in a jam. And in a pinch, a shoulder to cry on when the world turns against you. Not a fucking chance. A best mate kicks you when you’re down, slags you off at every opportunity. Borrows a few quid and never pays back. Goes out for a few shandies when you’re broke and phones you up to let you know what a great time you’re missing. You might even sling punches at each other from time to time and that’s alright because guess what? You’re best fucking mates. And that’s what best mates do.
My best mate, he knew I wasn’t a great runner. His party piece when we were young, go in a shop, blatantly steal something, say a Lacoste sweater from Austin Reades, it’s not important, attract the attentions of the security geezer and shop assistants, the more the merrier, then make for the door. Yeah, my best mate ran cross country for the city boys. I played rugby for the school. Badly but my dad had a car and was free on Saturday mornings. There’s another best mate. Your dad. On rugby, ’You’re not as bad as I thought you’d be.’ Bless him. Wouldn’t want it any other way.
Your best mate leaves you sleeping on a bench on the front at Blackpool, with your laces tied together and a cup of cold tea balanced on your chest. He gets in arguments with bouncers and neglects to give you a heads up on the situation. Consequently, it’s a great mystery to you why you’re getting wailed on and ejected from the bar. Your best mate gives you a tip on a long shot that’s a long shot for good reason. Then laughs as you stare at the telly in the bookies wondering why all the other nags have finished running but yours is still out there. Somewhere.  He'll take a run at a bird you fancy when you’re not around. Just to piss you off. But should you have a steady girlfriend, she’s off limits. Though he’ll imply differently. And that’s what’s fucking great about your best mate. He has standards. They’re as low as yours, invariably but he has standards none the less.
In short, yer best mate’s a laugh. Makes life fun. If he’s not get another one.

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Silly Bastards

The first thing I saw when I looked around after finishing my final CSE in 1986, was Carl Degnan trying to draw a pair of glasses on his face with a Biro. The second thing was two lads having a ruler fight the lad in front defending himself by randomly waving his ruler around behind his head without looking, his other hand frantically trying to finish the exam.

 Most of these lads I've lost touch with. I saw Carl D last in 1989, he'd started a bus driving YTS. Good going for a lad who'd been banned from driving as 15 year old after he swiped his dad's mk3 Cortina and piled it on Brierley Common.

One of the ruler lads now lives in Australia, and regularly voices dubious opinions on Facebook, all in block cap Barnsley dialect. He broke another lad's collar bone by sneaking up behind him, shouting WOMBAT! then jumping on his back.
His speciality though was making you laugh hysterically at the most inappropriate moments.

We all went to a funeral of a schoolmate in the early 90s. All very sad as the lad had been very popular, had a unbeatable dry humour and was only disliked by the jealous. He died in his house in a completely avoidable drunk chip pan fire incident. A tragedy.

At the funeral, a completely off the mark selection of the lad's 'favourite' music had been played, one particular track was some horrible soft rock bollocks that went on forever and had been really badly taped. 'Wombat' had been dropping 'funnies' throughout the service that we had managed to ignore, and he was getting desperate for a reaction.

"What's this, the fucking 12 inch extended remix?" He whispered. Skip (nicknamed after his dad, who in turn was nicknamed after his dad, who was on the last boat out if Dunkirk, called Skipper), one of our closest friends who had grown up as a next door neighbour of the deceased, burst into hysterics that he had to quickly disguise as a massive bout of deep and uncontrollable grief. We quickly led him out of the service and tried our best not to be heard in the tiny church as we almost joined the residents of the graveyard, trying to catch our breath between bouts of tearful, violent laughter.

Ironically Wombat is now a fireman, noted for his bravery and dedication, the daft twat.

This story is for you Hilly, miss you mate. : ,(

Ken B

Royally Stitched Up

As the news came out that the Queen was on her deathbed, the country descended into outright chaos. The Prime Minister appeared on television to appeal for calm and understanding in this emotional time, but nothing could change the situation – both Prince Charles and Prince William were missing – the two direct heirs to the throne could not be found. Anywhere. All the international crime agencies were on the case – the CIA, FBI, MI5, Interpol, the KGB, even the Ku Klux Klan.

The Armed Forces abandoned their missions and returned home to conduct house to house searches looking for any clue as to their whereabouts. Prince Harry was placed under the tightest of security as he and Prince Phillip kept a bedside vigil in Buckingham Palace as the Queen slowly faded. Both Camilla and Kate were taken to a secret location for their own safety, as nobody had a clue who was responsible for this audacious attempt.

Parliament debated long into the night, trying to decide what to do. Some wanted to keep the throne vacant until such time as Charles and William could be found, or Charles or William. Then there was the faction that demanded Prince Harry should take his place. Not surprisingly, the Republican sympathisers kept their heads down and their mouths shut for fear of reprisals. Ultimately, after a hotly disputed vote, it was agreed that Prince Harry was to ascend to the throne once the Queen had passed away. A convoy of armour plated limousines conveyed the Prime Minister, Chancellor of the Exchequer and the leaders of the opposition from Westminster to Buckingham Palace, and in a private audience, they informed Prince Harry of their democratic decision. Harry bowed his head and fought back the tears, but regained his composure and thanked the politicians. Arrangements were made for a television address by Harry when the time came.

Harry retreated back into the sanctum of the Queen’s bedroom to be with his Grandmother in her final moments. Silence reigned for about ten minutes, before both Phillip and Harry came out, tear stained and distraught. Harry rushed out of the palace and into a waiting car, speeding away to the consternation of all.

As news of the Queen’s death spread, the television address was all ready to go. The only thing missing was the new King, Harry.

He did eventually arrive and prepared himself for the address. He stood in front of the camera.
“On this most emotional day, I would like to announce the greatest April Fool’s Joke ever.” And through the door and in to shot came the rest of the Royal Family, including the Queen, waving and smiling.

Jonathan M