~an archive~

The bed is supposedly our refuge from the world, a comforting haven in which to truly relax and let the cares of the world melt away but often restful slumber evades us, however, as the bed is also the venue for a heated battle of the sexes; the eternal night-time struggle between male and female for sovereignty of the duvet and possession of the pillows.

Just the other night i muttered sleepily, I'll go and sleep on the windowsill...at least i'll get some bloody room there!

Another night, another drowsy curse at the interruption of my dreams with a growled You think you're a bloody sausage-roll with that duvet!

I get a tiny sliver of cover to keep me warm at night while a certain somebody hogs the remaining 95% and yet finds the nerve to utter complaints about my own sleeping habits...

Apparently (so i'm told by a particularly unreliable source and with no corroborating evidence whatsoever) i spend the hours of darkness snoring like a rhinoceros, rolling about like a wrestless, dribbling walrus and becoming an absolute dead weight, not to mention a duvet-hog to the extent that she suspects i have a secret lover who sleeps on the floor at my bedside which must surely be why i repeatedly haul the duvet over that way.

Domestic disagreements such as these will never have a right or a wrong because neither protagonist is fully awake at the time but i know for a fact that i usually awake more knackered than when i retired the previous evening therefore i will continue to claim the moral high-ground on this regular matrimonial point of dispute.

I raised an eyebrow in surprise this week when perusing the FHM Top 100 Sexiest Women In The World 2009, the delectable and opinionated Geordie madam, Cheryl Cole, being named this years most desirable female.

Good for you Cheryl, i say but...

I remain surprised at Cheryl's award due to the fact that i personally rate her only 3rd sexiest in Girls Aloud, never mind the whole world, comfortably behind the sparkling Nadine Coyle and the gorgeous Nicola Roberts, who only finished 57th and 58th respectively which was slightly infuriating to me and i hereby demand questions be asked in Parliament regarding this appalling miscarriage of justice.

I also scratched my head when i saw the stunning Christina Aguilera languishing at #65 because if half the ladies above her in the list possess one tenth of her sex appeal then i'm a monkeys uncle...even allowing for the old adage of one man's meat being another man's poison.

In fact, i didn't know half the names listed but there were a few crumbs of comfort sparingly scattered throughout: Anna Friel (9), Alesha Dixon (62), Holly Willoughby (74), Billie Piper (92), Danii Minogue (97).

It's a far cry from the list i'd have compiled myself for literally dozens of deserving damsels are conspicuous by their absence although there were one or two unexpected inclusions that did please me, namely Katie Melua (51), Katherine Jenkins (79) and yes, Fiona Bruce (98)... certainly not the pin-up type expected in these things but she does have a certain something that appeals not only to myself but obviously to one or two other red-blooded males out there too.

See the full Top 100:
http://entertainment.uk.msn.com/celebrity/photogalleries/article.aspx?cp-documentid=16305921

Ever since St.George drew forth his mighty weapon and thrust it forcefully up the old dragon, an event never to be forgotten by any Englishman (or the dragon itself for that matter), this land has been the scene for untold chivalrous deeds and noble, lost causes.

But those heroic knights of this realm would be no more inspiring than the flies swarming around the cows backside were it not for this nations greatest and most beloved treasure, the English Rose, our sacred womanhood.

The English man would yet be persuing mammoths and sabre-toothed tigers were it not for English woman, she who fills our greyest days with apple-blossom and the sweet scent of honeysuckle.

The pure English Rose blushes with maidenly virtue, suffering her man to dwell in the mistaken belief that he is both Lord and Master, that home is his castle and that he could ever aspire to any degree of greatness without her gentle and calming presence, rolling-pin poised to delicately correct the poor fellow when he inevitably falls into error.

And so while we celebrate St.George's Day, give praise to whichever female it was that prodded him forward to such legendary greatness in the first place because without the benign influence of this dear unknown madam, he would probably have taken the dragon for a few pints and a curry, thus adorning the nearest gutter rather than the glossy pages of our history books.

This year sees the 500th anniversary of Henry VIII's accession to the throne of England and i find it fitting to share this brief tale with you:

Deciding to remain within English shores for a change, i slunk along to Hampton Court intending to insinuate myself into the good graces of a certain wife of Henry VIII, fully aware that i might literally lose my head over this woman but considering her charms well worth the immense risk involved.

However, now that i was here in Tudor England, i wasn't entirely sure if i was most besotted with Katherine of Aragon or Anne Boleyn, both having much to recommend themselves to my discerning attention, Katherine's sultry Spanish warmth and passion against Anne's sophisticated wicked ways and sharp wit.

They were by far the finest of Henry's six wives, the others failing to ignite a spark of passion in even my over-heated and forever writhing, filth-ridden imagination.

Making my mind up to favour Anne, who i'd heard had picked up quite an array of tricks in her time as a young lady at the French court, i crept through the passageways of the Palace and skulked into her private chamber like a thief in the night.

Becoming aquainted with such a notorious woman as herself was truly a pleasure, i can tell you without the slightest reserve.

While her belligerent and portly sire swilled his way through a vast banquet in the halls below, quaffing gallon after gallon of mead, she was bestowing upon me countless secret delights and pleasures.

She later became known as Anne of a Thousand Days but after my experiences of her that wonderfully exhilarating evening in merry olde England, i concluded that a thousand nights with this ravenous beauty would have surely killed me stone dead.

It would have taken them another thousand days to get the lid on my coffin.

As dreamy fantasies go, i've always thought those glamorous old ads for Fry's Turkish Delight took some beating, subsequently setting the tone for my own unattainable daydreams and loosening my grip on dreary reality at an early age whilst impressing me with their delightfully exotic imagery.

What a vivid impression they made on me back then because they had it all: a rare ruby-centred treat that tasted as if it were made in heaven (far too good to be a mere sweet), an enigmatic female who was beautiful, enchanting and said nothing, endless moonlit sand dunes and a charging Valentino-esque hero on horseback.

As the hero wildly dashed, the dusky beauty just stood there...and looked.

She didn't need to do anything else, just stand there and look.

Sultry in her silence, letting her eyes do the talking, a mysterious unspeaking seductress with countless secrets to be explored but divulging none of them...only hinting, only looking...looking at me with such expressive eye that they needed no words:

I am the unknown girl of your wildest dreams, desirable daughter of the desert, come here at your fervent heart's plea, seeking you out beneath the burning crimson moon this solitary night because your soul calls to my own, your senses urging my caress, your passion a flare inciting those within myself...and because i know you're fond of a nibble at bedtime.

http://mypoetry.blog.co.uk/2008/08/17/for-chocolate-lovers-4599458/

No prizes for guessing my favourite moment in the opening show of Britain's Got Talent this weekend although actually, there were two enormous highlights for me both of which were provided by Fabia Cerra.

The magnificently buxom 35 year-old housewife really pulled out the big guns right from the off and astounded everybody with a steamy dance routine clad in traditionally saucy bedroomwear, strategic tassles included...letting us have both barrels in the process.

Good God! they all gasped breathlessly.

Good for you girl! i murmured, both applauding and ogling furiously from the sofa.

I didn't until now realise that i had anything at all in common with Piers Morgan but the look of gaping hunger on his face reflected my own as Fabia moved her ample flesh seductively to the music.

My only complaint being the producers who saw fit to conceal those wobbling beauties with hovering union jack graphics...never was the flag of my own nation such an unwelcome sight.

It's hardly the stuff of Royal Command Performances, sadly, and i realise that she's not likely to win the show although if i were King then such glorious fare would top the bill throughout the length of my illustrious and bawdy reign, otherwise heads would definately roll.

After my turbulent affair with my youthful first love, Fanny Salmon, i lived many long years in the shadows of love, pining and mournfully wailing over the loss of the girl who had seized my heart so recklessly, totally crushing my boyhood dreams beneath her muddy hobnail boots.

So defeated and bruised was i that i believed the sun would never again cast its warm glow over my broken heart.

Therefore, imagine my total disbelief when wandering cold and alone, miles from my home, i called into a deserted chip shop and beheld my own, dear Fanny slouched like a forsaken sack of potatoes behind the counter.

My mouth was dry and speechless as my heart thumped madly in my breast, simply gazing upon her vulgar splendour after all these years was enough to reduce me to a palpitating wreck of a man.

She glanced my way, absent-mindedly tugging her thong from the crack of her ample backside before addressing me: Yes love, you want summink?

In that instant the soul-destroying realisation hit me that Fanny didn't even remember me, i was a mere stranger to her now. I mumbled my order and cast my sorrowful eyes to the floor, wishing that it would open up and devour me.

Carelessly, she cast my chips into the greasy paper and handled my saveloy very roughly, (not for the first time in her life) before drenching them in salt and vinegar.

The motion of her shaking the vinegar bottle reminded me with a pang of what i'd missed about her all this time, but it was plain to me that she would never again be mine. I took my food and trudged away forlornly, clutching my wilting saveloy as i went.

(originally from May 2007, reposted for your pleasure)

Domestic help can be something of a hindrance when you have a couple of maids such as ours; young Penny and Polly are the most work-shy, frivolous and downright naughty of girls, playing merry hell with us from sunsrise to sunset and disrespectfully delighting in every form of mischief that can be conceived.

Where are they when there is dusting or polishing to be done?

You might well ask because many's the time i've caught them both canoodling in the scullery, many's the time i've overheard their silly girlish giggles from within the pantry and many's the time i've awoken to find they've not only crept into my bed but are nibbling and gnashing me into submission with their sharp little teeth, making free with their hands and causing me no end of distress.

They will insist on making oblique remarks regarding Morning Glory and winking knowingly at one another but i must confess to being totally ignorant about what amuses them so and find it all quite baffling.

The Lady of the house finds their shocking behaviour almost intolerable and spanks them thrice daily in the hope, i presume, of correcting the error of their ways but sadly with little effect thus far leaving me to conclude that they plainly have little notion of common decency or maidenly virtue.

Penny and Polly try our patience to breaking point and like good souls we endure our suffering and trials with sober smiles of resignation because, after all, you just can't get the staff these days.

It is said that confession is good for the soul and because even the slightest of spiritual benefits would be a tonic to an old sinner such as i, the following guilty admission must be kept to myself not a moment longer.

Approaching a busy road junction recently, i saw two pedestrians patiently waiting to cross, one being a thirty-something bottle-blonde in the tightest pair of jeans that i'd ever seen, the other a little, snowy-haired, wobbly old lady.

Gallantly i pulled-up and waved them across with a smile, the blonde acknowledging me with a knowing grin that seemed to say, I've got your number, matey, you only want to have a good look at my bum as i walk past.

Indeed, i did fondly gaze upon those peachey denim-clad cheeks for a lingering moment, their poetic motion an indulgent but perfectly meaningless treat on an otherwise mundane midweek afternoon.

It was at this point that i noticed the little old lady again, who was smiling in gratitude and waving her warmest thanks at the perceived chivalry of my permitting her safe crossing, no doubt wishing long life and good health to this apparent knight in shining armour.

I nodded lamely and smiled back weakly, secretly unable to dispel a nagging feeling of guilt at being hailed so graciously as if i'd performed an honourably benevolent deed purely for her convenience when the truth of the matter was that, were it not for the blonde in tight jeans, then i may not have stopped at all.

I was entirely undeserving of the sweet old lady's smile, utter scoundrel that i am, but can only pray this frank confession and my sincerest repentance will at least prove a tiny step on the road to my eventual redemption and ultimate salvation.

Like the sun coming out from behind a leaden cloud, i suddenly see who i am and why i'm out-of-step to the point of discomfort with life in the modern world...triggered by a distant glimmer of memory it all becomes perfectly clear in the blinking of a toads eye.

The humble toad in question being named Touchwood, devoted familiar and confidante to none other than Catweazle, the Saxon wizard who famously miscast a spell and consequently tumbled through time from the 11th to the 20th century.

Catweazle saw the world through my own eyes and i through his, causing the idea to occur that i have likewise suffered his unfortunate fate and somehow become ominously transported from my own time to an era with which i have precious little affinity or comprehension.

He was baffled by Electrickery.

He wondered how someone conversed with an invisible person who wasn't there by means of The Telling Bone.

Afeared at the witchcraft of the domestic light bulb, he wailed at the unnatural capture of The Sun in a Bottle.

With wild, staring eyes and head filled with maddeningly strange visions, i endure the world that i find myself banished to but will never quite understand how i came to be here instead of dwelling amidst the familiarity and custom of my own, long-departed century.

...and for those who never knew Catweazle:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3uhtkYQ3wNc