Friday, 29 October 2004

Another day, another relationship disaster

Another one bites the dust

Another of my, frankly pointless, relationships has recently ground to a juddering halt on the tumultuous and broken highway of life. Just because she had the offer of moving in she developed the wholly misplaced fantasy that I no longer required regular oral sex. A fact to which all married men will painfully testify is that a bride smiles on her wedding day because she knows she has given her last blow job. The collapse in d├ętente was precipitated by one of those utterly meaningless spoken exchanges that seem to punctuate any relationship I find myself in. Disappointingly she was able to speak, hindered neither by the presence of my manhood in her mouth or the raucous grind of my snoring which usually engulfs her side of any dialogue.

As usual she had found a reason for complaint, and as usual the complaint was about me. This time she chose to berate me about my incredibly amusing habit of breaking wind loudly when participating in sexual communion. I find a duvet rapidly inflating, lifting off the bed and drifting a few inches above the mattress a wonderful adjunct to time spent in repose. Since I was not the one that introduced the concept of vegetables, and the resulting gaseous bi-products, to meal times I did not think that she was entitled to any real grievance. You fill me with rubbish like petit pois, steamed pok choi, stir fried broccoli and grilled lettuce, you are going to spend the evening listening to my rear end play the Dam Busters march. If I need vegetables with my steak I will have chips and not some tasteless, green, paper.

Since this was going to a deep and 'relationship defining' sort of conversation she decided to broach the subject when I was in a good, in fact the best of, moods. That is, just after sex. I had managed to persuade her to perform her oral duties by taking a firm grip on her neck and propelling her head in the general direction required. Realising I was not going to release her until she started she eventually got on with it, amidst a great deal of complaint.
'It's disgusting. Have you ever tried it?' she asked, trying, and failing miserably, to sound clever.
'Damn right I've tried it. Nearly broke my fucking neck. If I had two less vertebrae you would be lay there reading a book wondering when I was going to finish.'
On one memorable occasion she even tried to ruin my shit with the classic,
'I think you have had enough now.'
'NO' I said, shouting at an almost hysterical pitch 'I have not had enough. You will know exactly when I have had enough. There is a very clear and delineating point at which I have had enough, believe me, you will not miss it. This is not a grey area. Afterwards though grey may, at some point, enter into the proceedings.'

When it is time to reverse the roles, then suddenly it is not so disgusting. Apparently chewing on her mud flaps is showing her my caring and sensitive side. And they are always going on about the clitoris. What the bloody hell is a clitoris? I have seen the diagrams and the gynaecology photographs but the real thing is a much more baffling. Okay, I say, turning on the light and producing a mirror, you show me where it is. Doesn't that always produce a real quick change in direction? When asked to generate some evidence as to the existence of this fabled sex organ, there is suddenly some other pressing topic of conversation to be explored.

Like most women her timing is impeccably bad, and the only part of the conversation, whilst it was still a conversation and not an argument, that I managed to hear was
'Wake up! You are not resting your bloody eyes you are snoring, loudly, which is something else we are going to have to discuss.'
Then the bitch had the audacity to accuse me, writer, artist and poet warrior that I am, of being insensitive. One fact that exemplified my insensitivity was that I do not offer to massage her enough.
'You complained only the other day that I massage you too much.'
'Fondling my boobs in public is not a massage.'
'You have enormous breasts, what do you expect me to do?' and instantly it was an argument. As arguments go this one was not much of a challenge. It takes far more than a degree in sociology to make someone who is naturally a bit thick into an erudite wielder of a well turned phrase. She was even reduced to
'All those times we were making love, I was faking it.'
'Faking what?' I asked, genuinely surprised.
'Orgasm.' now shouting, as if she had achieved some great Napoleonic victory.
'You mean you were awake when I was having sex?' I said, laying particular emphasis on the singular, first person, pronoun. 'I thought the sex was fantastic.' I continued 'I hit the high notes and all my bells were ringing. Afterwards I would collapse deeply into the arms of Morpheus.'
'Well for me it was lousy.'
'Who cares?' I asked.
'Ouch' I replied and off, out of my life, she and her enormous breasts, went.

Wednesday, 27 October 2004

Phew What A Scorcher!

The Freedom of the press

This is not the freedom to tell the truth, but the freedom to ruin your shit. Allow me to explain. By your I mean the average newspaper reader. A bumbling buffoon writing in a national newspaper recently caused an uproar by accusing the entire city of Liverpool of inappropriate emotional behaviour. In an act that demonstrated a supreme lack of belief in anything that he had written, the buffoon agreed, on the orders of his political masters, to go to the city and be butt fucked by the entire populace. But, being an old Etonian and quite used to this sort of thing, it was decided that this would not be much of a penance.

Still he travelled to the city, with his shit in ruins, to be shouted and swore at by the local, mainly illiterate, unwashed masses. One inadvertently challenging question put to him by a wholly inarticulate specimen was

'What gives you the right to say that about us?'

What gives him the right to say it is freedom of speech, and if you do not like it fuck off back to North Korea where brutal suppression of the individual is appreciated. (This is in fact my favourite response to any red necked, or even slightly right of centre, opinion. If you are being addressed by a trendy socialist replace North Korea with [President's name]'s USA). A better question would have been

'What gives you the right to say it in a national newspaper?'

He has that right because he is an old Etonian who has greased his way up to editing an unreadable rag. The follow up question then is

'How do I get to have my equally worthless and vile opinions published on nationally distributed toilet paper?'

The answer to which is, you don't. You did not go to the right school, you do not have family connections in big business, you are not a toadying lickspittle in the government, you do not get to be heard.

It is upon this crux that the complete fallacy of the freedom of speech argument hangs. To say something controversial and not be persecuted by the baton wielding instruments of government repression is an inalienable right. But only a very few get to voice their innuendo and propaganda in a forum that reaches all the population. A medium that is advertised and aggressively marketed in every supermarket, newsagent, corner shop and kiosk in every single city, town, village and hamlet in the country. More people in this country have access to the complete range of Fleet Street dailies than to the internet. Though it is true that after a particularly messy shit you can not wipe your arse on the internet, unless you want it completely ruined as well as messy.

Bear in mind that the majority of the British press is owned by foreigners who neither reside nor pay any tax in this country. To get anything you have written into a British newspaper, tabloid or broadsheet, the opinions voiced therein must be a reflection of and serve the same political ends of the foreign capitalists that own and control our press. Newspapers do not even report the news, they only pass the opinions of their masters upon it, embellishing it with lies and exaggerations until it no longer even resembles the facts. This is not freedom of speech but an Orwellian stifling of free will. All you will read in newspapers is what the Big Brother capitalists want you to read.

The solution to this problem is simple. Instead of allowing a poisonous and self-serving minority sole access to the written word, allow nobody. Ban all newspapers from publication until they can learn to report the news instead of trying to make it. That way more people will read interesting web pages like this one.