• Tea At Dolly's.

    Everytime i see a tempting dish of home-made jam scones or hear the reassuring sounds of tea-making, the shimmering image of former obsession springs to mind in vivid detail and in full technicolour, the worldly woman who opened my once innocent eyes to a life of lust and desire...local harlot and much frowned-upon widow-woman, Dorset Dolly.

    How my soul still grows inflamed with a smouldering passion whenever her memory is brought to mind, my heartbeat pounds for her artful touch, my fingers trembling just as they did all those years ago when i first dared explore her forbidden curves.

    She enticed my youthful inexperience into her little cottage, (or should i say lair?) with the simple offer of cream tea and strawberry jam freshly made by her own fair hand but from the moment of my polite acceptance i was caught fast in her trap, writhing like a helpless fly in her treacherous web of sin.

    Dolly tittered to herself as she took my hand and led me from the homely parlour to her bedroom where she took full advantage of my sluggish state induced by her sumptuous tea by suggesting i recline awhile upon her feather bed and permit her to loosen my clothing a little.

    During the dark hours that followed, my fate was sealed and doom ensured whilst my body became the mere plaything of that wickedly voracious woman, my tender flesh nothing but a toy to satiate the flaming desires that raged unbridled beneath her faded floral dress and gingham apron.

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  • A Sorry Harvest.

    Like a faithful old dog standing guard beside his masters' dead body, i continue watching Big Brother whilst feeling the slow dawn of realisation that the sell-by date has long since been and gone and the halcyon Best Bits of yore will never be revisited.

    Perhaps the producers have themselves grown bored of the whole thing and instead of seeking out the brightest, most combustible and funniest characters who auditioned, have simply picked this years sorry crop at random with a That'll Do mentality?

    The once-rabid eviction night crowd now dispense their boos half-heartedly and even Princess Davina herself seems happy to amble along in second gear.

    I did quite like the artistic Russian boxer, Angel McKenzie, finding her fascinatingly weird, strangely charming to watch amd endearingly bizarre but with her early departure the shows failing interest has waned even further.

    Siavash and Karly are the best of what remains, both mildly amusing at times but there's nobody capable of making any lasting impact on the memory in the way that housemates of the past have done...what i'd give now to see another Kinga Karolczak or Nikki Grahame...

    ...Emma Greenwood...Narinder Kaur...
    Kate Lawler...Science...Makosi...Shabnam...(sigh)...

    Even the pantomime villains that i loved to hate at the time would be dear to me now...Nasty Nick, Victor, Charley, Ahmed...dear God, even Rex and his awful Nicole would be welcomed with the fatted calf this time around!

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  • The Call Of The Waves.

    Being a proud Englishman, i retain the God-given right to moan about the weather throughout the year regardless of season but never more so than today after suffering yet another painfully hot days work during which it seemed as if i'd melt away into a gooey liquid like a sun-stroked ice-lolly.

    If there was a single ounce of sense inside my head, i'd phone in sick tomorrow and spend the day at the beach where the cool breezes could play across my exposed skin while the noonday sun patiently roasted my sizzling flesh.

    Laying on a baking beach watching the girls go by, having a dip in the wonderfully cool sea whenever i wanted followed by a bag of chips with lots of salt & vinegar, ice-cold drinks galore...and then a long, long sleep in the sun until i'd had enough of paradise and went home perfectly happy and refreshed.

    But i'm far too conscientious and dutiful for my own good and, of course, i'll be working like the proverbial mad dog again tomorrow, sweating buckets and feeling my energy levels draining steadily away until i have just enough left to drag myself home afterwards and promise myself that one day i really will take that much-deserved sickie.

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  • Spirit Of The Compost Heap.

    Being an unassuming and dishevelled concoction of waste vegetation and redundant greenery, i wonder if there is a Spirit of the Compost Heap and if so, does he sometimes regard me as kindred in the same way that i wistfully regard himself on occasion?

    With a quiet dignity he sits brooding by the ivy-clad garden wall aware that there are prettier sights than himself within the vicinity yet knowing his station in the grand scheme of things and therefore quite content with whatever debris life throws his way, having long since learnt the fulfilling art of self-acceptance.

    Discarded potato-peelings, sodden teabags, dead leaves and yesterdays grass-cuttings, no matter what is cast upon him, he remains unruffled and quietly implacable, even philosophical i dare say, having seen many a season come and go with the passing of the years.

    He basks in the sun but doesn't complain when it rains, blesses the myriad creepy-crawlies that infest his innards in his natural spirit of benevolence, watches the pretty young seedlings grow into handsome plants with the satisfaction of having helped nurture them all in his own humble way.

    Of those that dwell within the realms of the garden, he is surely the most innocuous and least praised of all residents but would perhaps be the most sorely missed and deeply lamented should he ever shuffle away in the dead of night for pastures new.

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  • Soap Babe #15

    There is a certain type of woman with the mysterious ability to subliminally control the mind of man, forcing him to see her in the sexiest black lingerie regardless of what she is actually wearing at any given time.

    She dares him not to strip her with his imagination whenever he gazes toward her because she knows only too well that he is powerless to resist and cannot do otherwise, being but a simple man and mortally subject to the bewitching spell that she has cast.

    Such was the case with a certain raven-haired beauty that i was once aquainted with via the medium of television for never once did i lay my eyes upon her without a strange kind of intuitive X-ray vision kicking-in to teasingly reveal those sultry assets.

    Like all the best mythological demons, she is known by many names...Cruella of the Cobbles, the Wicked Witch of Wetherfield...the Underworld Temptress herself...Carla Connor.

    What she did or didn't do, the men she loved or didn't love, the garments she did or didn't wear are all beside the point with Carla because, as far as a man of flesh and blood such as i am concerned, her every appearance was a darkly erotic tale of softly whispered pleasures and brief in the telling but forever after lingering in the memory.

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