~an archive~

Once in a while you get an uncontrollable desire for something you've not had for ages, something still fresh and tantalising in the memory which is precisely how i feel right now...it's been so long, so many years since i last treated myself to that most revered of chocolates, the seductive Walnut Whip.

In my youth, i'd gaze upon that glorious mound of temptation and my lips would seek the hard walnutty nipple, gently nibbling and teasing until my passion could be quelled no longer.

Having conquered the summit my tongue would roam free in exploration and sheer unadulterated indulgence until that sweet creaminess engulfed my senses, knowing that i was powerless to stop until my tongue was aching and i'd fully satisfied my forbidden passion.

Looking back on it after all this time, it seemed an almost sexual experience but surely performing cunnilingus on a mere piece of confectionary, no matter how tempting, was taking things a little too far?

Not a bit of it...my conscience is perfectly clear, those Cadbury girls were going down on Flakes every twenty minutes or so in every ad-break, year after year, in just as erotic a fashion as i was quietly performing upon my beloved Walnut Whip...i wonder if those girls still have the knack today?

One of the greatest festivals of the calender is but a matter of days away, Pancake Day, but many of us are so busy indulging ourselves with those sacred discs of sweet deliciousness that we overlook the traditional and true meaning of the special day itself...The Sisterhood Of The Pancake.

The historical symbolism is there for all to see: Pancake Day is all about adoration, a much deserved celebration of those beautiful flat-chested maidens that might otherwise be overshadowed by their more buxom, bra-busting sisters.

Each Pancake Day we make a huge fuss over something flat, warm and tasty because despite our ongoing obsessions with the more ample bustline, the demure Pancake Maid is every bit as deserving of our love and affection as any other woman.

All cakes are wonderful no matter what the size, it's the juiciness of the cherries on top that really count.

Putting themselves down with weary references to bee-stings, fried-eggs or molehills, these perky little beauties can stand proud with the best of them on their special, hallowed day.

Let us ruminate upon Tara Palmer-Tomkinson for a moment: men's eyes follow her every move regardless of obvious cleavage famine, she is tremendous fun, always entertaining and a proud standard-bearer for that ancient and revered order, The Sisterhood Of The Pancake.

As a fully paid-up member of the Big Knockers Appreciation Society i will confess to personally favouring more than a handful but, nothwithstanding, can also appreciate the charms of the more subtle delights to be found within A or B cups across the land.

I keep encountering a particular online advertisement for yet another wonder diet which promises to make a girl ravishingly gorgeous in about a week, ridding herself of those love-handles forever, which all sounds very well except for the perplexing image used to promote the product.

Girl A is the Before picture, pre-diet, whilst Girl B, the After, is the end result.

So why is Miss Before so much sexier and alluring than Miss After?

It's all a matter of taste of course (not that i can claim any personal knowledge of what they taste like, you understand) and i wonder if my eyes are as defective as the dieticians would have me believe but the girl in question looks ten times better with her natural God-given curves compared to her new-look toned stomach and taut thighs...so healthy and dreary.

To put it plainly, i know which bottom i'd rather come to grips with and which tummy i'd sooner caress: the gorgeous womanly figure of Girl A without a shadow of a doubt, they made her lose a few pounds and an awful lot of sex-appeal in the process too.

In my opinion.

I realise that many women would prefer their bodies to resemble the slimline version as portrayed but i thought i'd just air my thoughts on the matter and make it clear that the shapelier You will often capture the male attention a great deal more than the slender You ever will.

Just something to think on the next time you're forcing down a tasteless, calorie-free, health-conscious meal...alternatively, you're always welcome join me for a wickedly unhealthy All-Day Breakfast, i'll even let you dunk your fried-bread in my yolk.

St.Valentine's Day is upon us and the Hounds of Love have once more been unleashed to terrorise all and sundry with slobbering wet kisses, rounding up the population and driving them together in pairs as if they were the Devil's own sheepdogs.

They chase us into card shops, florists, restaurants...their deep growls subsiding only once we've emerged bearing every symbol of affection known to mankind.

They sit with drooling jaws as they watch us feeding each other chocolates and strawberries, demonic tails wagging while we whisper our sweet nothings and exchange kisses.

Today these hounds are everywhere, forcing us to seek refuge in perfumed bubble-baths surrounded by shimmering candlelight, standing guard outside the bedroom door lest we attempt an escape before the bed-springs have endured a rigorous work-out.

As February 14th arrives each year you may try to outrun or outwit them like a cunning, fleet-footed fox but once the hounds have your sweet scent in their nostrils they will be snapping at your heels until you have been driven into the arms of the one you truly love...succumbing to that amorous fever, heart pounding madly as they finally drag you down to meet your fate.

Get me spuds she said
Don't forget a loaf of bread,
Oh, some milk as well
Otherwise you'll burn in hell.

Returning home
With every penny,
Mumbling that they
Didn't have any.

Receiving comments on my blog is always very nice and very welcome but my last post apparently inspired the lyrical amongst us to comment in rhyme, verses which i have no doubt the greatest of classical poets would have been highly proud of.

Eyes wide with surprise, awe and admiration i discovered the following lines penned by none other than Zappy5971, who has obviously been hiding her light under a bushell:

Bread, milk, spuds, cake,
let me remember for Gawds sake
If I don't take these items home,
then she will nag me and she'll moan
I do the shopping when I can
But please don't yell - I'm just a man?

Still reeling in absolute raptures from this shaft of divine inspiration, i stumbled upon another example of the magical spell that the written word can invoke, this time graciously bestowed upon my dizzy senses by the lovely PrincessFiona:

Bread, milk,spuds,cake!
is that all I need to take?
Wonder if I made a Mistake!
Will my wife beat me with a steak?

It is now several months since i last donned my poetical hat but i really will have to try and come up with something apt in the near future, ladies you have inspired me yet again.

Picking up a few bits of shopping for my wife on the way home may appear to be a simple task, accomplished without further ado but you'd be sorely mistaken because the required items either fiendishly conceal themselves from view or become mysteriously deleted from my memory.

Bread, milk, spuds, cake...only four little things to remember but when given a shopping list, however brief, i am without fail overwhelmed by a sense of inadequacy to the task, plunged into an endless pit of confusion and despair.

Too often i've offered the lame excuse that They didn't have any and the time had arrived for me to finally deliver...i was determined not to fail yet again and resolved to return home for once with Everything that i'd been asked to get.

I walked into the store silently reciting my sacred mantra: Bread, milk, spuds, cake...bread, milk, spuds, cake...over and over those demonic words swirled around my head as i wandered up and down the aisles in subdued panic.

I encountered the spuds first which really perplexed me...the shopping-list was not even given to me in the correct order...the omens looked bad.

As i eventually located each item and mentally ticked it off my list, the words kept revolving round and round until i began to dread anybody speaking to me before i'd left the shop for fear of my brainwashed reply...Bread, milk, spuds, cake.

At a stroke the biting winds shall cease, there will be no more frost, no more icicles on my toes and no more crystallised dewdrops suspended from my nose.

I've decided to escape this English winter of ours by imagining myself in warmer times, something which can easily be wished in the blink of an eye if i set my mind to it, when the snow arrives i'll be luxuriating somewhere in August instead.

Closing my eyes and thinking hard, i no longer sit shivering with chattering teeth and blue fingers, i will be a good six months away where the images of the frozen wastes are nothing more than a distant memory.

So much nicer than this abominably cold weather, being able to see my own breath indoors and watching frost-bitten mongrels cock their legs against lamp-posts then disappearing within their own clouds of steam.

I instead laze upon the sun-baked and golden sands of a summers beach, roasting like a sweaty baked potato and wearing shades so the girls can't see how my eyes follow their shapely figures around, manfully sucking-in my belly whenever they happen to glance in my general direction.

I always become drowsy beneath the sun and finally doze off, my dreams filled by exotic visions of loveliness: sultry maidens wearing next-to-nothing and smiling invitingly as they bring me succulent tropical fruits for my pleasure and refreshment...now that's where i really need to be.