The Mechanics Of Profanity

I perform a daily external patrol around my place of work pretty much as soon as I arrive on site each morning, armed not with a telescopic baton, pepper spray or a taser but with a bin bag and the keys to the bin store,

You see, I’m not on the lookout for armed blaggers or tooled up psychopaths but for litter louts and damned defacers. Or rather, I’m on the lookout for their multifarious droppings.

This is just one of the many uplifting and status elevating jobs that I perform regularly for my employers.

On a good morning my rounds will net nothing more than a couple of empty cans of Special Brew and an empty cigarette packet (usually Marlboro). Though on occasion these items are augmented inextricably by the presence of a pair of ladies shoes, the cellophane wrapping from an Asda T-shirt (which will be missing – presumably on the purchaser’s / shoplifter’s back) and an odd collection of serviettes still folded up into neat little squares.

Plainly the drunks and tramps around the Leamington Spa area have standards. Not necessarily high standards but standards none the less.

On a bad morning I will encounter what is known in the trade as “a man turd”.

Now, this is not to be confused with a dog turd.

A dog turd is bad enough. I don’t need to describe one to you because you’ve all seen one / walked through one. They’re disgusting and unwelcome in the extreme but have one small positive; one saving grace. The odour of a dog turd (unless stepped into and thus reactivated) is relatively short-lived. A quick slide action with a shovel and they can quite successfully be scraped up off the ground and catapulted into nearby undergrowth without too much post-contact shovel cleaning required. If you’re really lucky the turd will already have turned quite crusty and will barely have left a mark on your spade of choice. Job done (no pun intended, etc).

None of this is ever true of a man turd.

Now, you can tell a man turd by the size and smell.

They smell bad.

And they smell bad forever.

So bad in fact that even a passing hyena would gag.

And they take a hell of a long time to go crusty. In fact they retain a Christmas cake moistness of such magnitude that they may one day be identified as reliable sources of H2O in a post atomic holocaust world.

If you’re lucky the “bricklayer” will possess a healthy digestive system and will deposit a single neat sausage that can be scraped up quite cleanly and lobbed somewhere out of sight and out of mind. If you’re unlucky, however, the owner will have the digestive system of a cat on high strength worming tablets and will leave matter that can be variously described as “a broken muffin”, “a Spanish omelette” or, worst of all, “a walnut whip”.

And such matter will defy any and every attempt at efficient shovelling. In fact using a shovel is just a big no-no. You’ll just get the offending matter spread over a wider surface area and the shovel itself will be transformed into a chemical weapon so effective it would make a muck-spreader vomit.

What is needed is an industrial strength hose and a bio-suit.

I was faced with one of these this morning.

Now, I’ve become something of a stoic when confronted with these still-warm examples of ethno-botany but a couple of niggling questions always buzz around the back of my head (like the flies) every time I encounter one.

The mechanics of producing such an offering... I mean, how exactly does someone go about it?

The pulling down (or up) of clothing and the squatting down I can just about envision (though try not to)... but... cleaning yourself up afterwards...? What happens there, eh?

Do these people come pre-prepared with toilet paper or freshly bought copies of The Big Issue? If they do this suggests something premeditated about their whole activity and therefore a sickness of the mind.

Or are such droppings evidence of people genuinely caught short... a case of the poo-train is coming and the brakes they ain’t a-working?

What happens then? Surely you don’t just pull up your kecks and walk daintily home, ignoring the uncomfortable localized heat and the feeling of greasy skid marks working themselves deeper into the gusset of your Y-fronts?

You must surely make some attempt to clean yourself up, to scrape off the worst?

But with what or on what?

Nearby foliage? The wall of a building? The pavement itself?

A sleeping tramp?

My mind boggles.

Answers on a piece of toilet paper to the usual address please...

John Wayne Is Big Leggy

I’m wearing corduroys today and as a consequence I sound like I have a small, hungry puppy strapped into the gusset every time I walk.

Yip yip yip yip yip...

Add a bit of tinder and I could start a forest fire.

To make it worse we are having a quiet day at work so the slightest noise is amplified a hundred times. I can sense people’s heads turning each time I cross and uncross my legs.

To combat this unwanted attention I have begun walking with my legs slightly further apart than is natural. I look like a cowboy who’s lost his chaps. A troupe of circus dwarves could ride a monkey bike – in formation and carrying flaming brands – between my legs without even touching the sides.

My kneecaps are protesting and it’s very bad for my posture. Plus I’m going to be hauled over the coals for sexual harassment if I’m not careful.

Tomorrow I will be wearing jeans.

The Grundies

It could be the pall of fog that has descended over the Midlands. It could be the cold that has swelled up in my respiratory passages like a water filled balloon. It could even just be the time of year...

But I feel like pants this morning.

And not nice, saucily exotic pants either but dull, off-white, verging on grey pants with a bobbly gusset.

In the great Pantheon of the Pant Gods, I have been transfigured by the Pant God of Death and Depression.

My elasticised waist is ropey and loose. I’ve gone horribly baggy around the back. The fabric around the front is wearing unpleasantly thin. And the less said about the skid-marks on the left inside leg the better.

I need a makeover but boxers and G-strings just aren’t my style.

I’d go commando but I have strong pacifist leanings.

Sports briefs on someone as naturally sedentary as myself just wouldn’t wash.

And as for fig leaves... well, they bring me out in a rash.

Geez. Is there really no other alternative but ladies underwear?

Aren’t I depressed enough without having to shop at Ann Summers for myself...?

The Tache Ten

Ten things you can do with the amazingly prehensile moustache of Dick Strawbridge, the Rex of Recycling on the BBC’s It’s Not Easy Being Green...

1) Weave the bristles into an amazingly robust kagoule that preserves body heat, protects against rain and allows you to strain homemade vegetable soup through the fabulously glossy fibres.

2) Wax, plait into spikes and imbed in the bottom of a freshly dug pit. Dick’s excellently nourished follicles are well known for having the strength to impale wild boars and grizzly bears upon the razor sharp points of their split ends.

3) Placed against a tree at an angle of 45 degrees Dick’s face curtain can be made into a makeshift bivouac when you are caught outside in the hostile elements unprepared. Dick’s heavy nasal breathing will also act as a comforting heat source. Be careful not to light a campfire though!

4) Carefully removed from Dick’s top lip and preserved in quick hardening resin the mighty moustache of manliness can be utilized as a highly effective boomerang. Not only will it break the neck of any passing kangaroo but it will also catch a shed load of witchetty grubs within its fur matting. A main course and dessert – what more could you ask for?

5) Finely chopped and added to a crucible containing iron ore, fired to a few thousand degrees Celsius and tempered in spring water for several days the resulting tensile-intensive blade can be worked and sharpened into an edge so sharp it can cut through the dimension of Time itself. It’s also great for skinning rabbits and paring fingernails.

6) Removed whole and the upper portion glued to a strip of elastic Dick’s hairy slug makes a quick and easy replacement for damaged or besmirched underpants. It fits all sizes and is completely unisex. Due to its patented maximum ventilation technology the Dick Pants will keep your bits and bobs cool and comfortable. Also doubles as a handy brush for the safe removal of winnits.

7) Chopped into half inch lengths and attached to a piece of chewing gum the resultant mini brush can be fastened to any handy vibrator to become a highly efficient electric toothbrush. Useful when pursuing a hot date or pitching product at a high powered business meeting when you’ve been foolhardy enough to have taken the garlic and onion salad option for lunch.

8) Mixed with mud and river clay, the resultant wattle and daub can be used to caulk damaged canoes, fishing boats and Trans-Atlantic cruise ships to protect them against water incursion, barnacle build up and terrorist attack. It is also guaranteed iceberg proof.

9) Diced in a Kenwood and added to a concoction of oysters, chocolate and Drambuie this highly potent potion will have the desired object of your lust eating out of your hand and wanting you to stroke them with your own bodily love follicles... simply add a couple of drops to a glass of wine or as the topping to a baked potato and your wicked way will be had. Hey, it works for Dick. Allegedly.

10) Feeling rather breast heavy? Super strength cantilevered endurance bra finally failed you? Simply tie the ends of Dick’s moustache together at the back of your neck and rest your nellies in the resultant bap hammock. The moustacho-bra can be removed from Dick’s top lip to make it more portable or if desired can be left attached so that Dick’s happy go-lucky mouth can act as a heatsink, thus keeping you cool as well as advising you on the best way to go green and save the environment as your boobs are transported safely and stylishly with you wherever you may chance to go. A similarly arranged nob hammock is currently at the testing stage of production.

Ariston And On And Off

Of course it had to happen.

Now that the first mortgage repayment has been made... now that the entire house and its contents are solely ours... the washing machine decides to go belly up and do a fine impression of a dying fly (complete with spin cycle and eco-wash option).

I came home yesterday afternoon to find the programming dial clicking manically through every point on its fascia while the washing drum sat flooded and still like Romney Marsh. My underpants were not happy.

So, as some wise blogger commented on this ‘ere blog a few weeks ago, now the house is ours so are ALL the bills. Oh joy.

Even as I write a washing machine repair man of the highest calibre has already been engaged to come to the rescue of my grundies on Monday afternoon.

Hopefully the operation will be quick, painless and cheap.

My pants await with baited breath...

Pants

Can’t deny it. I feel absolutely pants today. I’m suffering from a raging head cold and all its many accoutrements. All of which seem to be disgustingly snot based.

However, I bet I’m feeling a lot better than dopey dwarf, Leo Sayer, who comically slit the throat of his own already poorly career yesterday (surely a case of euthanasia?) by evacuating himself, little poo stylee, from the Big Brother house in high dudgeon all because BB refused to supply him with a clean pair of underpants.

Leo it seems refused to wash his own underpants on camera because it was “degrading”.

Hmm. It’s only degrading, Leo, if your grundies are horrifically spattered with turd-stains, haemorrhoid cream or spunk.

Or all three, of course.

Hmm. Is there anything you wish to come clean about, Mr Sayer?

Apparently not.

Not on camera anyway…