A return to more wholesome topics.

In case any of you were worried about the report at the BBC about sperm donations. I wanted to clarify some of the potential ambiguities.

“a shortage of sperm donors”
This means that there are insufficient sperm donors, not that sperm donors are lacking in height. Masturbation does not stunt your growth. I am six feet tall, and although I have been referred to on many occasions as “the biggest wanker in North East Hampshire”, it should not be construed that fellow practitioners are all midgets.

“The clinics are struggling”
This is all to do with meeting quotas, it does not mean that potential donors will be engaged in physical combat during the act of donation. That would be silly.

"It started to decrease even while the law was under discussion."
Then talk about something slightly more erotic.

“too few men were coming forward”
This is indicative of a lack of volunteers, not some bizarre onanistic position.

"Today, many NHS clinics are finding it hard”
Needs no explanation.

“a lot of sperm banks have closed their doors.”
This is probably a positive step. It may discourage a few exhibitionists, but generally these activities are best kept private.

Moist, throb, inner thigh, engorged, thrust.

As it is the weekend, and everyone pretends to have no time for the internet, I thought I would sneak in a quick sports post, at least it will serve to cool down the ardour of the many frenetic females who hang out here (aMToNW).

After many years of wandering in the wilderness, it seems that there is an English slow bowler who may develop into world class. Apart from Derek Underwood, who was a slow bowler rather than a spinner, there have been none in my cricketing years. I never saw Jim Laker play. Monty Panesar seems to have the ability to bowl aggressive spin. I don’t remember seeing that in an England test team. My memories are of English spin bowling are clouded by that complete and utter twat Emburey, and various bit parts played by the woefully pathetic Tufnell, Croft, Edmonds and countless other underachievers. Panesar is accurate, he varies his delivery and he is able to spin the ball. I suspect that often he does not know what it is going to do. He is good to watch, unusual enough in a bowler. All of the current England batsmen are good to watch too, with the exception of Collingwood, and I don’t begrudge him his place in the team. So I have found another (lack of) activity which will cause my roots to embed themselves further into my couch as the long hot days of summer pass by. Regular readers (a Mrs Trellis of Silly Mid Off) will know that I do not pass the Tebbit test (and no, I will not, at this time, indulge my non-British fans be explaining that). I like to watch skilful players; however, in defence of the English cricket team who were criticised for their performances against Sri Lanka, I would point the critics towards today’s scorecard from South Africa. 624 for the third wicket, no less. Can I also put forward the name of Michael Holding as the filler of the void left by Richie Benaud.

I also took time to watch the Bledisloe cup game (see my previous Tebbit related comment). I thoroughly enjoyed it, despite being distracted by the whingeing Australian commentators. What a pair of big girl’s blouses. Then after the test match had finished on Sky there was a short film about Laker’s match in 1956. Some of the Australian players were interviewed. They are still whingeing 50 years later.

There, I don’t think there was anything slightly amusing in any of that, so I will have to try out Jack’s theory to see whether the title of the article attracts more readers than normal.

And I still might write about Fred Trueman at some stage.

Recycled garbage

I found this old comment of mine from Bozza's website - someone had visited me from this page.



"Boris's mummy and daddy were deeply shocked to find such a book under his mattress. Boris sheepishly tried to think of an explanation why one of such tender years should have an interest in Danish cheerleaders."

A slight intermission

OK, everyone over to Carmenzta's place and give her a big hug.

(and while you're there ask if she has any pictures that are more explicit (I did say 'slight'))

Oral sex

I trust that my loyal readers (aMToNW) are not bored of my reviewing TCM at livescience. If you are, please let me know, and I will ignore you.

One of the items of ‘research’ detailed there is about praying mantids. Every schoolboy knows that these creatures are notorious for their mating habits, in short, the female is wont to devour the male after the sexual act. Billy Brown of some university in New York has this to report: "Males are clearly not complicit, and the act of sexual cannibalism in praying mantids is an example of extreme conflict between the sexes." To you or I this may seem to be a little obvious. He probably gets paid for stuff like this. Either that or his married life is so extraordinarily violent that it is likely that either he or his spouse has spent some time in a penal institution. This all questions the intelligence of the male praying mantid. I of course, have never been devoured after any sexual act. I have managed this by noting that my partner may be a little peckish, and bought her a nice meal beforehand. This is a deterrent to post-coital cannibalism, and is more likely to result in her nodding off with a satisfied smile on her lips. I can only conclude that the praying mantid is thick. I do not think this point of view favours either the Darwinians or the ‘intelligent creationists’, which is quite pleasing as I hate to be the source of controversy. The question is, particularly to the gentlemen, how much risk would you take for a shag? Is there anyone out there who would, or has ever, risked death for a quick legover? Ladies, have you ever had congress with someone so attractive that you could not prevent yourselves from swallowing them whole afterwards?

Holiday tips

I was delighted to find out, during the course of my monitoring TCM at livescience.com, that they, in partnership with National Geographic Expeditions, are offering a trip to the DDay landings. For the modest sum of $5580 you can fly from New York to London, nip in to St Paul’s, then via Portsmouth get a ferry to the beaches in Normandy, where you will be decimated by the local friendly machine-gun wielding inhabitants. Those unfortunate enough to survive will be treated to some vile French food (yes, it is tautology, but over-emphasis is sometimes necessary).

If my American friends (a Mrs Trellis of North Wyoming) value my advice, I would caution them not to come. Violent death is seldom the exciting climax to a vacation that the travel agents would have you believe. This does not apply to dear Adam, who is currently working in Target. On balance, it is probably safer for you to risk being massacred on Utah beach than to work in a branch of Target in the southern states; we have all seen ‘Deliverance’.

PS - the Telegraph have realised that the value of their site will be enhanced by my patronage, and have consented to publish my comment.

I just don't get it

I feel it only fair to warn my loyal readers (aMToNW) that there are some aspects of human existence in which I have to declare a bias that might cause some of you to look elsewhere for the sort of advice that normally pours forth like a torrent from these pages.

Perusing the online Torygraph this morning, I see that one of the writers says that the sight of Stonehenge is the highlight of his annual journey to Devon, and opposes the building of a road tunnel in the area.

I just don’t get it. I drive by Stonehenge on my regular charitable visits to the underprivileged, uncultured and friendless in Devon, and my reaction to this historic monument is that it is just a bunch of rocks. I am not filled with wonder that these stones were dragged from Wales (by a man known as “Bert the half-wit” by his contemporaries) in the days before the railway network (and therefore made the journey in less than a year). I do not ponder for hours the significance of it, but I expect that future archaeologists will puzzle for hours why the previous owner of my house built a structure that looks like a well in order to hide a drain cover. They will probably deduce that it was an altar in some strange twentieth century religion, and there will be one day a year when future generations will assemble in North East Hampshire to commemorate this ancient wisdom, little realising that the true wisdom of the era was composed on a Dell 8300 not 30 feet away.

I just don’t get it. Once when I was in Rome, I had some time to spare and went to look at the Trevi fountain and the Vatican. Just a bunch of bricks. With some water in the former case. I felt no desire to queue to see what Michelangelo had done on the ceiling inside. When I was in Paris I did not go to the Louvre. I went to Notre Dame, and was underwhelmed. I just don’t get it. I have tried. I have visited the National Gallery in London. Totally unimpressed.

I have no desire to travel the world to look at stuff. Never seen nor want to see the Pyramids, the great wall of China, the grand canyon, Ayers rock, giant redwoods or the branch of Ikea on the north circular road.

If someone offered me the chance to view Goldie Hawn’s butt, then I would probably accept, but only if it didn’t clash with a Test match.

So, dear friends, if you want an opinion about how something looks or what colour to paint your house then you might be better asking the advice of someone who professes an interest in such matters.

And Pavlov, I don’t care.

Having grown somewhat tired of Boris playing the same record, just with more volume to try to get attention, I have decided to begin a relationship with Bill Deedes over at the Telegraph. I left a little comment on his latest article today (I doubt whether it will appear on line). I feel in need of friendly Tories to abuse, and have a great admiration for Bill. I hope that we can develop a new series of Dear Bill letters, because my world wide recognition is well over due, and who better to combat than a nonagenarian?

I have never had a letter published in the Torygraph. I expect that my views are about 12 centuries too early. They do a very good sports section, however, and don’t usually miss anyone of note in their obituary section (apart from the living who seem to be curiously neglected). Did you know that Peter Hawkins had died, for instance? Their on line fantasy football competition is also excellent. Yes, Richard, I pay to compete in that. On top of my subscription to Murdochvision. Good job you don’t know about my collection of Cecil Parkinson speeches, isn’t it?

Bill Deedes was famously the inspiration for Boot in “Scoop”. If anyone missed the filmed version with Donald Pleasance as Lord Copper, then try to rectify that forthwith. For people in North America, the DVD is available from Amazon.

More than a woman

Even in these dismal days of summer, when it is too hot to move and I am suffering from some sort of strange disease contracted in the USA, there comes the occasional shaft of light to brighten this dark age. This one comes from TCM at livescience. They are discussing the problem of cane toads in Australia. As recently as June I tried to provide an answer to this problem, something about getting Rolf Harris to sing until they had all killed themselves.

“Attempts to eradicate the toads have been largely unsuccessful, although scientists reported last year that they had managed to lure and trap the creatures using ultraviolet lights like those used in disco clubs.”

Yes, there we have it. I wish (not for the first time) that we had some Aussie visitors here. But perhaps some of you are familiar with nightlife in Queensland. Have any of you frequented the discotheques in the area from Brisbane to Cairns?

I have never been an attendee at such institutions. From what I can gather they are so noisy and poorly lit that it is impossible to discern what your dancing partners are saying and what they look like. I suspect that many of you are thinking that that would be an ideal environment in which I could find myself a partner, but so far I have never been quite that desperate.

So, despite my lack of first hand experience, I would urge caution. It may be at the end of the evening that you find that the attractive young lady with whom you have been dancing, chatting and drinking, is slightly more amphibitorial than you had hoped.

Here are the signs you should look out for to help you make sure that your dancing partner is not an impostor:

• Deep voice.
• Bulging eyes.
  
• Poisonous glands on back.

Now, some of you might be unkind enough to suggest that the above criteria are insufficient to distinguish them from the typical Queensland Sheila. I would never stoop to such ethnic stereotypes, (unless I could be sure that I had some Queensland readers).

Off you go now and check your marriage certificates. If your partner is named “Bufo Marinus” then you may have been deceived. Unless you are Tom. I understand that these creatures are prodigious breeders – right up your street.

The seamless handover of power

Then I grabbed her arse like this, and did that thing where you shake your cheeks between her breasts, and told her that I had licked the back of her head every time I posted a letter, and now could I lick the front please? Is that what you do on your weekly briefings?

Mystery revealed. What was actually said.

You silly fellow, there is no way that Schopenhauer was a Buddhist, he reached his conclusions through pure empiricism.

sits back and waits for that frightful swot Pavlov to correct something or other.

Jottings in lieu of listening to people talking bollocks about football

Children, if you are reading this because you think that old uncle Vicus is quite funny in his depraved way, then read no further. This article contains a very naughty word. It is not clever to use it, and you will get into trouble if your parents find out.

There. That should have done the trick.

The BBC has chosen as it theme music for the world cup "See the conquering hero comes" from Judas Maccabaeus by Handel.

You know the one - da da de dum dum, da dee da dee da dee da.

A lovely tune, very memorable and uplifting.

Unfortunately, it was written to celebrate the achievements of prince William, duke of Cumberland. He was a complete cunt. Even by the standards of the British royal family, even by the standards of the worst manifestations of British imperialism he was a complete cunt. The only good thing to say about him was that he helped in the downfall of Charles Stuart, who was also a cunt, but not quite such a complete one. I suspect that God might have intervened in this one, to make sure that neither of these complete cunts became monarch.

Back at the music, an analogy would be for Joni Mitchell to write a song about Dubya's marvelous foreign policy.

So, here we have an interesting paradox. Is it fitting that the current world cup be linked with a wonderful piece of music, or that it be linked with one of history'’s complete cunts?

I haven'’t seen all of the games in this competition, so I do not know whether there have been any memories that would do justice to the music of old Georg Frederick. None that I have seen, for sure. Argentina looked good against teams that allowed them to look good. But on the quality that I have seen, then perhaps, at best, Henry Mancini would be the composer to pick. Or have songs written by Stock, Aitken and Waterman. Or sung by Petula Clark.

I will remember this tournament more for the continued appalling rule breaking and wishy-washy enforcement that has characterised almost all World Cups. The continuing theme seems to be to cheat the better teams and players out of the competition.

My remedies to stamp out this behaviour are as follows:

• Introduction of the 10 minute sin bin for a yellow card.
• A fine, based upon a percentage of the weekly wage of the player, for all dissent; for example holding your arm up to indicate to the referee that the throw-in should be 10% of your weekly salary. Remonstrating with a referee or linesman should be a 100% fine. There should be no limit on the number of times these fines should be levied during a match. (Therefore it would be possible to be fined 3000% of your weekly salary during a single game). These fines would have to be paid by the player, not the club or country.
• Any player going to the floor injured (or, obviously, pretending to be injured) has to leave the field for a minimum 5 minutes for treatment.
• Tribunals should decide on diving. Penalties for diving should be a multiple of 1 match missed.

I saw the opening game of the tri-nations yesterday. Not a classic, but far more worthy of the epithet "“beautiful game"”. And I haven'’t even got around to writing about Freddie Trueman yet.

Go on, France and Italy, prove me wrong.

It certainly takes a while to catch up with reading all of the comments and new articles that have been posted by my many virtual friends while I have been away. My goodness, you are very productive.

Fortunately, none of you have felt it necessary to try to usurp my position by writing anything that is amusing, interesting, creative, informative, original or in any way worthwhile, so I am reassured that I can have another little break at some stage without too much to worry about.

A few brief comments while I find my feet (explains why the typing is so slow. Just read slowly, or, like Tom, keep pace with me by enunciating each letter).

1) Missouri, for some reason (I suppose there is a reason, but being in the heartland of Bush voters that may be presumptuous), is known as the “Show me” state. The local sheriff’s department is not very sympathetic to those of us who mistake the intent behind this motto.
2) Next time I am away, please do not allow Fred Trueman to die. There has not been a world class English bowling partnership since the days of Trueman and Statham, and I was hoping for a comeback. Now that both of them are dead I suppose that has become unlikely. Warning. I may write more about Trueman later, notwithstanding Richard’s contribution. Look away if men’s stuff offends.
3) I must apologise to John Motson. The football commentators on ABC are much worse than him, in the same way that we thought it was not possible to get a president who was more stupid than Reagan.