Sunday, October 25, 2009

I Enjoy A Good Grind.

Wandering along the cafe front in Ramsgate yesterday afternoon, between showers, on my way to the Belgian Bar (cafe) for a spot of lunch and some Leffe Tovers, I was surprised to be confronted by a bunch of tents, offering almost everything a girl could need for a good afternoon out.

First hit was the curry tent, hosted by a right couple of MILLs (Mothers I'd Like to Lick), for a satisfyingly spicy experience, all washed down with some Gadds' No3 from the beer tent, served by the horniest looking MILL that I'd come across since the last time I bought a beer in their tent, in July. Strange how I wasn't attracted to her then.
And I loved the driftwood furniture that they'd decked the place out with.
It made me think of salty seamen. Ahh, good old days!

But the madman in the next tent, with his rendition of The Texas Chainsaw Art Massacre, was nothing short of astonishing!
I couldn't quite make out what he was trying to fashion from his lump of wood, but he seemed to be having a whale of a time hacking into it with his chainsaw and angle-grinder, while deafening everyone within fifty feet and spraying them with sawdust.
I had a little chat with him while he was standing back to consider which bit of his wood he was going to attack next, and was informed that his nine inch tool, while grinding, because of wear and tear and the awkward placement of one of his nuts right in the middle of it, could only penetrate to a depth of about four inches.

Useless info. to a woman of my interests, of course.

So what the Hell was that all about, and why weren't we told about it?
If anyone's interested, they'll be there again today, until 4pm.

Friday, October 23, 2009

French And Belgian People Smell....

....their food before they eat it, because it's often very nice.

Russian people suffer more with indigestion.

People from Hungary eat a lot.

Swiss people will look after your money for you. Really!

The Italian people report more incidences of UFO sightings.

The Spaniards don't, despite spending a lot of their time pacing backwards and forwards across their gardens.

People from Greece can be slippery customers.

While people from the UK spend an inordinate amount of time enquiring after eachothers' welfare.

For my part, I really couldn't care less about what people look like, or how they behave, because of their nationality. Though it does piss me off when people behave like arseholes, no matter where they originated.
So I'm an arseholist!

Sue me!

The Whiching Hour.

I've often been fascinated by a coven of scintillating witches who are scattered about the town, appearing fleetingly here and there, but always clustering and cackling together whenever they meet.
I expect they were up to all of that on Sunday, for the new Moon. Preparing for the wan Moon (thank God they didn't call the thing Ker, eh), which will brighten over the next fortnight and stimulate their pussies into familiarity, or something like that.
(If you, like I, believe that familiarity breeds contempt, then do look out for a fair few frustrated pussies in and around Ramsgate, over the next couple of weeks!)

Though I can only guess, as I spent my whole day in the bedroom/toilet dying from a vitamin C overdose.

Anyhow, as a born-again mingette, dedicated to the groove, as it were, that fascination has developed into something more fundamental.
Well, mental, at least, as a good deal of these broomstick jockeys are really quite attractive women.
So I've found myself vetting these witches (I'd love to hear a German say that) to determine which witch could be my bitch.
Come on now, a bunch of women who never mix business with men? If most of them aren't suffering with 'beaver fever', then I don't know who would be!

It's gotta be worth a go, just for the crack.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

A Labia Of Love.

Shooting the breeze with Hellen last night, I thought I'd mention my new found lezzer tendencies, in the hope that she'd lend a sympathetic ear.
Well bless her cotton socks, she lent a little more than that!
In all the years that I've known her, she never once even hinted at the fact that she's bisexual.
Why would she, I suppose.

And then we kissed. Tentatively at first, gradually simmering to a full-blown passionate embrace, tongues entwined and frantically exploring.
Moments later, though it seemed like hours had passed, we were laying naked on my bed, gently caressing fingers making me gasp with anticipation and desire, her mouth melting into my neck and gradually descending, sub-cutaneously, the length of my body, before emerging from my burning center to linger lovingly until my explosive climax.

Though I must say that throughout the whole experience, I didn't feel entirely comfortable, as lovely as it was.
I must chat with my hypnotherapist about that today.
Though I'm not convinced she'll be that much help to me. When I thanked her last week, for helping me to realise a side of myself that I was previously unaware of, she just giggled and told me that I was welcome.
She can be a bit odd at times.

But please, if anyone feels that they need to go and 'bless' their own cotton sock as a consequence of my revelation, feel free to keep it to yourself!

Monday, October 19, 2009

An Apple A Day, Keeps The Doctor Away.

Utter bollocks!
I had, by my reckoning, the equivalent of a crate full of apples at the Cider Festival in Churchills, over the weekend, and I don't think I've ever felt quite so ill in my life.

Still, it was jolly good fun at the time.
And Hellen was off to London for the weekend, which only served to enhance the experience for everyone.

So in true local media style, here's a link to the official video of the bash.
Sharp eyed readers might pick up on the fact that that was, in fact, the 2007 beer festival, in Margate. Though it's run by the same people, so it's probably more accurate than calling Margate beach, Ramsgate beach.

Friday, October 16, 2009

Rubbin' Hood.

Rubbin' Hood, Rubbin' Hood, with his nude women,
Rubbin' Hood, Rubbin' Hood, fiddling with his pen, is
feared by their dad,
he tugged on his pud.
Rubbin' Hood, Rubbin' Hood, Rubbin' Hood.

Gosh, there's an old ditty that takes you right back, eh?
I couldn't quite remember the words exactly, but I did my best to fill in the gaps (unlike the subject of the song, though I'll bet he thinks about it a lot).

I used to love the TV series, with such colourful characters as Little Johnson (Rubbin's crutch and best friend), Triar Fuck (rare cameo appearances, often ending in disaster) and Made Marion (well she wasn't old enough to decide for herself).
And some of the scrapes that he used to get into, with the Sheriff of Knotty Ash and his Diddy Men, had me in stitches!

I'm sure we'll never see it's like again.
Though I'm told that the Winter Gardens hosts reenactments on a fairly regular basis.

For further details, please contact Mr Palmer, Winter Gardens, Margate.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Banter Clause.

After a recent spat of correspondence with Google about content on my blog, following a complaint from another local blogger, they've finally had to admit that, although a little risque, none of it is actually libelous.
Though they've asked me if I wouldn't mind toning it down a bit, as they are obliged to follow up these complaints, no matter how deranged, lunatic or lengthy they may be, and that this particular complainer ties up half of their staff with every rant that he spews upon them, simply to work out what the Hell he's on about.
I tried appealing to their sense of reason by pointing out that it could be worse and that they could be in the shoes of the police complaints department, receiving fifty such emails every single day about issues that date back to the way that Pontious Pilot dealt with that whole Jesus thing.

But apparently they don't have a sense of reason, just staffing problems.

Ah well, as there's sweet FA that they can do about it, I'm afraid I had to tell them to be a little more conscientious about getting staffed (or something like that).

So no, I rather feel that I may have to ramp it up a notch.
You never know, it may take the heat off the police for a while, freeing up a few officers to get out on the street and crack some crim skulls.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Mel 'n' Omar.

Far be it from me to mock the afflicted, but when you meet a couple who appear to be more wart and mole than actual skin, all kinds of thoughts manifest themselves, voluntarily or otherwise.
However, as they seemed to have invoked their own little exclusion zone in the pub, my heart went out to them, along with the offer of conversation.
I think that caught them by surprise every bit as much as their appearance did to me, but, after breaking the ice and sweeping introductions behind us, they actually turned out to be every bit as poxy as they looked!
I don't think I'd ever met quite as bitter and resentful a couple in my whole life.
But being the charitable and understanding soul that I am, I bit my tongue and forged ahead, as though none of us were hating every second of it. I got the distinct impression that chatting wasn't one of their more finely honed skills. That and liking the rest of the World. And when the conversation turned to problems that were encountered, and precautions that had to be taken, during the act of love, I'm afraid I had to take my leave and slope off to the loo to supress second helpings of my tea.
Luckily, after 20 minutes of grappling with the contents of my stomach, I returned to find them gone.

I should add, BTW, that those aren't actually their names up there, but psuedonyms to protect their real identity. Though if you ever came across them, they'd be quite easy to, er, spot.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

It's Your Cock-up, My Arse.

Highlighting the all important use of hyphens and commas, there. Had Don written that title, we'd henceforth be thinking that he may well be a buggerist.

But no, it's actually concerning an underling at work who phoned me this morning to let me know that a customer had not recieved a rather important piece of documentation, which should have been with them by yesterday at the latest, to facilitate an order being dispatched by tomorrow (also at the latest).

She didn't much like what I said to her, but I figure it was gentler than the reception that I'm going to get tomorrow morning, at work!

My fault, I suppose, as I should have checked up on the dippy bitch! As they say, if you want a job done properly, do it yourself.
Gawd almighty, what with that and the imminent arrival of Hellen on Wedsnesday, I think I may be pulling a sicky tomorrow.

Though I don't think it'll be unethical to do so, as I'll be out this afternoon making damned sure that I feel like death warmed up in the morning.

Friday, October 09, 2009

Today Is The First Day Of The Rest Of My Wife.

I must say that I feel like an enormous stone has been lifted from my 34C chest, now that I realise on which side my bread is buttered.
And such a relief to realise why I've always thought that men were a bunch of twats. Must've been wishful thinking, eh.
Though it's obviously come as a bit of a shock, as I've found myself doing some pretty odd things since my startling revelation.
For instance now, every time I sit on the loo, I fling myself onto the floor shouting "The Germans are coming, the Germans are coming, hande hoch!", I've shaved my eyebrows off, tea now tastes like coffee and visa versa.
So I've found myself peeing in a bucket, wearing a floppy hat and drinking Horlicks (how appropriate), during my period of adjustment.
I'm sure I'll settle down a bit when I get used to the idea that sex will, henceforth, be lasting for more than three minutes and that I'll never encounter a cock again.

I really don't think that I'm going to miss that. Though if I do at any point, I can always pop over to that Peter Chuckspilled's rubbish blog. I'm sure that'll get me back on track!

I really must congratulate my hypnotherapist when I see her next week. Perhaps I'll give her a little pat on the bottom and massage her breasts for her, by way of a thank you.

Although, as far as the smoking is concerned, I don't think that's working out as planned, as I seem to have developed a penchant for chain smoking cigars.
Ah well, I always though that hypnotism was a bunch of bollocks, anyway.

Still, it's all worth it, just to have met such an insightful woman and be pointed in the right direction.

For me now, the thigh's the limit!

Thursday, October 08, 2009

Oh! I AM A Lesbian.

At least, that's what my hypnotherapist told me today, whilst attending a session with her to help me give up smoking.

Y'know, she might have a point. I'd never noticed it before but some women are quite attractive in a way that goes beyond mere admiration.

Clever woman for being able to see a side of me that I'd obviously suppressed.

I regret being so rude and cynical to her, during our first session, now!

The Credible Sulk.

I hear through the grapevine that Margate District Council (TDC) is prepared to do whatever it takes to help Ramsgate's new Parish Council bring the town back up onto it's knees.
And their first act of benevolence is to cut all event funding to the Ramsgate Town Partnership, offering that that would now be the responsibility of Ramsgate's Parish Council.

No surprise there, then, from a bunch of bullies that were told to fuck off in the voting booths.

Pardon me if I'm wrong, but they are still responsible for the whole district of Thanet, aren't they?
Even if a part of it has been given a voice of it's own.

Never mind. We can always visit those TDC bitches in Broadstairs, to watch the fireworks.
And they've been trying to hi-jack our own party in July for years. First of all by pissing the organisers of the power boat weekend off to the point where they've relocated to Sheppy, then hosting The European Water Skiing Championships last year, insisting that they handle all the advertising, before completely failing to do so, on the strength that they didn't have the budget for it.
Now this!

Still, at least they didn't spring it on us at the last minute, this time.
Maybe there's something we can do, yet?

Wednesday, October 07, 2009

The Four Donkey Riders Of The Ablogalypse.

As local blogging has been getting a bit tired of late, with the same old bickering and same old responses to the same old issues, I thought I'd go off in search of pastures new and see if I could find a blogging community to rival our very own, here in Thanet.

I've managed to get from Dover to Eastbourne, so far, with an awful lot of ground to cover before I can form a proper picture of the whole Country.

But from what I gather up to now, things aren't that far removed from here.
Except for a notable drop in the amount of complaints about corruption and/or incompetence in their councils and hardly any grumblings about noisy aircraft bending the tops of their ariels.
Though there were several alleged sightings of small and sporadic patches of blue rain over Brighton, which have been cause for concern for a number of years. Speculation as to their origin includes....

1. Over population by blue-rinsers with thinning hair, coupled with frequent, strong South Westerly gusting.

2. Little bits of the sky falling off.

3. Passenger jets cleaning their toilets through, when they've finally managed to get everyone to sit down and belt up, before beginning their descent to Gatwick.

4. Subliminal campaigning on behalf of the Conservative party.

5. Alien invasion craft echoes, left upon their departure from our dimension.

Tease me gently with a carrot, it was just like being back home!

Anyhow, getting back to the title of this post, and the point, who are these Burro Borne Bloggers of Blight, that seem to appear everywhere along the South East coastline of England?

According to my version of the Bible, which has had an awful lot of corrections made to it since I first got the thing as a Christening present, they would be....

Not to be confused with 'aware', which means something almost completely the opposite, this sandpacker is obsessed with selling you something, be it the idea that they have even half a clue as to what they're babbling on about, a pair of used undies or simply a bunch of lies.

Yes, yes, probably me! Tch! The RSPCAtheist who doesn't give a crap about the donkey, so long as it gets you where you want to go. If it collapses on the way, not to worry, there's plenty more donkeys by the sea.
Still, truth comes out in what you say, not how you say it, surely!

I'd say that almost half of the Ablogalypse follow this Manure Machine Messiah, each with their own little seed of an idea which they're hoping the farmer will grow to fruition for them, knowing full well, in their heart of hearts, that they'd never be able to do it for themselves.

Which would cover the 'almost other half', who refuse to hear anything that might upset the balance of the carefully fabricated Universe which they've created (or had created for them) to protect them from the real one.

Plus I'll bet that my copy is the only one with Jesus throwing a bucket of water over a dog orgy AND punching a nun in the tit, for getting one of her Sunday school children stoned!

Tuesday, October 06, 2009

Cock O' The North.

I'd suppose that now the dust is settling between the Confederacy and the Union, in Thanet, this would be a good time to investigate how it all started in the first place, in the vain hope that it might be prevented from kicking off again, in the future!

With that in mind, I'd propose some kind of poll to establish exactly who is the biggest cock in Margate.
I would include Ramsgate in the running but, as we seems to be mostly women here, these days, there'll be no warmongers among us, so what'd be the point!

Now I'd host the poll myself, but as I have commenting disabled, I won't be able to do so.
Maybe one of our friends from oop North would like to do it?

Over to you, Mr Cockfeeler? Mr Bignose? Dr How? The Karate Skid?

Monday, October 05, 2009

Whore's Chestnuts.

According to my friend Sophie, last night, that'll be the moment when a gentleman romantically presents his paid girlfriend with a pearl necklace.
Quite how she got on to that, when everyone else was talking about Autumn, I'm not sure.
Well she was a wee bit tipsy.
Anyhow, it earned her the new nickname Sophie Titwank, which, as far as I'm concerned, is a vast improvement on her old nickname, Sophie Stickated, which she really isn't!

If any of you happen to come across a woman being referred to as 'Titwank', in the pub, do make sure to ask her about the origins of that. The poor thing suffers quite badly with shyness and a blush can be induced, simply by smiling at her.
That ought to make her light up like a Christmas tree!

Friday, October 02, 2009

I Am Just A Poor Boy And My Story's Seldom Told.

I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles, such are promises.
All lies and jest, when a man hears what he wants to hear
and disregards the rest, lie lie lie, lie lie lie, la lie la lie.

A lovely little ditty, penned by Paul Simon and his uncle Garth The Artist, called The Boxer.
Written in 1968 for a young, aspiring carpet salesman who liked to thump people.
He went on to become the most powerful man in Thanet who still, allegedly, likes to thump people.

Thanet truly is the rest home for the slebs, eh!

Thursday, October 01, 2009

Author ASCII.

I think I'll make the most of this next fortnight to reflect on my life so far.
At best it'll give me stronger footing, being reassured of who I am and how I became that person, when Hellen arrives.
Believe me, she's testing!
At worst Columbo, Ironside and Ace Ventura will have a few extra leads to follow.

This happened immediately prior to the last time that Hellen visited, almost as if invoking her spirit.

Anyhow, getting back to the point, my first paying job was in computing...

# a time when ASCII was a required language, if you wanted to communicate with these primitive machines.
It still is, but all of that's taken care of for you, by hard-wired software, these days. Which makes a bit of a nonsense of that silly poster up there, eh boys!

It was also the time that I discovered the internet.
Morse code was about to make way for Moore's code and, er, more code (but less visible).

A victim of my own success, I aided the development of algorithms that would negate my own employment.

Something that I've managed to do, with alarming regularity, ever since!

I guess variety is the spice of life, huh!
Either that, or I'm a lazy moo that likes to take a month or so off, every year, looking for another job.

Y'know, I might look into one of those countdown thingies, for my sidebar, ticking away the seconds until Hellen touches down.
Of course, I'll add another hour on, to compensate for the airport time difference.

Disclaimer: When I say that I discovered the internet, I mean that I discovered a computing network, already existing, that had been created, previously, by other people who were not me.
Though, I may have had a hand in starting the chat-room phenomenon known as lofting (keyboard to keyboard sex), which died out very quickly after the introduction of the webcam!
One rumour boldly states that the internet, as we know it today, originated in front of Arlington House, on a cold, damp afternoon, as an idea for moving photography (and everything else) indoors.

Gosh, that last site was a little slow and untidy, wasn't it?
Must be under-construction.