The Word Cloud

Liars.

You have to love them. After all, as wannabe authors, are we not in some way, liars ourselves? Do we not take the truth and twist it beyond recognition, perhaps beyond reality as they do? We call ours “art” and “entertainment” but surely the basic raison is the same; awe-inspiring, centre-of-attention, look-at-me, admiration. No?

The alternative, and perhaps slightly more polite moniker, is “fantasist” but today’s blog is not about the sword-and-sorcery this word invokes. It’s the other fantasist; the real world, sad and pathetic, one-upmanship loser that occasionally leeches away our lives.

Today is the third day a new colleague has “humoured” me with what can only be described as verbal diarrhoea. Today’s session, thankfully, was brief, but the first instance… oh dear god I will never have that hour and a half of my life back. The thing is, the conversation having been comprehensively overheard, I am now inundated with private emails to encourage my new colleague into more and more vertigo-inducing tales.

This is not my first encounter with a fantasist and so I feel it is time, perchance, to record these memorable instances. Sadly one blog cannot hold them all…

It starts, interestingly, in the same company where I met EzBird some 20 years ago. My new boss in my new job was as young, if not younger, than me. For the sake of protecting the innocent, we shall call him Tod. I have no idea why because in truth he knows who he is, I know who he is, everyone who worked with him at the time (and quite possibly everyone who has worked with him since) knows who he is. And also Tod is quite a funny name for a couple of (un-divulged) reasons.

So… my first casual meet with “Tod” and my alternate-shift workmate and the usual newbie questions were asked. Amongst them was;

“where were you born?”

A simple enough question, you would think, but you would be wrong, oh dear god how wrong you would be. My workmate was born in Leicester, no problem. I, however, with a soldier father, was born in Iserlohn in West Germany.

“So are you German, then?”

“No,” I said slowly and carefully in the manner I have since always employed when talking to the stupid, “I was born on British soil.” (It was at a picnic and EzMum used to carry the soil around in a jar... ok, that’s not true; it was BMH (British Medical Hospital) Iserlohn which made it British. Sigh.)

“Ah” they replied and interested heads nodded.

“Although my father always reckoned I could play football for Germany or England if I wanted.” I added laughing. (I don’t know if this is true... well, I know my father did always say it, but I don’t know if I could. Probably not because I was bloody hopeless at football…) “and besides…” I began.

But Tod interrupts; he steps up to the plate and I’m sure he took a metaphorical big breath before unleashing… “I don’t have a nationality.”

“Hmmm?” Followed quickly by, “How so?”

“I was born on an aeroplane over the Atlantic…”

I didn’t laugh. I was a gullible youngster in those days. Well, that day anyway. And so my fantasist duck was duly claimed and I was anointed into the oh-for-the-love-of-god brethren of needing latter day restraints.

“… besides…” I stumbled on, side-swiped from the left field of ignorant one-upmanship, “… you get your nationality from your father…”

It was at that point, right there, that I perfected my delicate, break-the-silence, faux cough and was to employ it so much in the intervening years that some of my colleagues thought I had consumption.

 

* * *

 

Now, to keep this blog brief, I’ll skip to Tod’s piece-de-resistance.

I admit to arriving upon this one half-way through; in other words I was not, sadly, “in” at its gloriously ridiculous birth, and it goes like this:

A young sales lad had been suitably astounded to find out that Tod had an AC Cobra. (A very rare and tasty sports car for those not aware.) Now our wily sales lad had been forewarned and so set a Tod-sized trap;

“Can I come and see it?”

Of course Tod was an expert already and duly turned him down as it turns out this fantastic vehicle “was not housed nearby but at Tod’s grandma’s”.

“No problem,” says me laddo, “I’ll go there, it’s not far as you mentioned she lived nearby just this yesterday.” Pin drop, anyone? No?

“Ok.” Tod agreed, eventually. A date and time one week hence, a Thursday evening, was set.

Every day from that initial agreement the game sales lad would pop by our department and confirm that “next Thursday” was still on. Every, single, day (except the weekend… well… I say “except the weekend” but I didn’t work every weekend and also cannot be certain the lad didn’t “ring” Tod at the weekend just to be a complete pain...)

“Absolutely,” was always the emphatic reply.

“Can’t wait,” the lad says. “I love cars. And I’ve always dreamed of seeing an AC Cobra for real. My dad’s got an inspection pit in his garage…” (No...! Too late…)

“Ah, well, you’ll love grandma’s garage then…” the Tod-meister retorts and then points out that this wondrous car is also ensconced in a custom garage completely fitted out with snap-on gear (a veritable millionaire’s playground for the mechanically minded) including an overhead gantry.

“And we’re still on for Thursday night?”

“Absolutely.”

Well, dear reader, Thursday duly arrives and our star is back; “Still ok for tonight?”

And this was Tod’s classic response;

“Ah. No. Grandma’s garage was burgled last night. They took everything. The car, the snap-on gear. Everything. Nothing left.”

I’m sure somewhere in the background someone asked “Did they nick the inspection pit too…?”

Further conversations, which were not as memorable, revolved around his joy at getting the insurance (“couldn’t afford the insurance; the car was worth over a million pounds…”) and the state of granny (“Nah, she didn’t hear a thing, deaf as a post.” “So neither she nor her neighbours heard an articulated lorry arrive at her house?” “No”) plus a continuing saga of Police incompetence in the ensuing investigation…

 

* * *

 

Which brings me to the modern day. This, you will be pleased, is the abridged version. I promise you it took an hour and a half out of my life. We shall also call our new anti-hero “Tod” for the sake of completeness and the fact that I cannot be arsed to think up another nearly-name.

Somehow, Egyptology was mentioned and the following (and it takes some following) trail of gibberish unravelled. (And my life ground to a halt before my wide-eyed disbelief.)

It seems our new Tod always wanted to be an Egyptologist but never got a positive response from the Channel 4/ History Channel (I forget which) team that was showing a programme at the time (?!) I should have bailed here, but I didn’t.

By some jolly happenstance, our hero found his way to Ethiopia, or somewhere suitably 3^rd world African poor (again, sorry about this but these were early details that did not survive – I do not, after all, have enough room in my cranium for all the nuances and details of this monstrous quest) on a mercy ticket. (Red cross, I think. And it could possibly have been Nigeria, not Ethiopia…)

Anyway, at some point Tod’s Egyptoillogical calling overwhelms him and off he walks (?) to Egypt. Ok, I may have made up the bit about walking but his journey was remarkably (mercifully?) short and bandit/adventure free. There he finds (because Egypt is such a tiny, teeny, tiny country…) a German archaeologist of such fine standing that he is willing to let our Tod, inexperienced but salary-free, loose upon the hopefully sacred ground.

Upshot is, after three months of finding nothing, our Tod is presented with a trip to Giza on the back of his long, hard, free work where the archaeologist will be even more obliging by giving our man a free tour to boot.

Cut to the pyramid. No camera’s allowed. And the tour is fascinating. No really. Ok. You have me.

“But,” says the German, and I’m paraphrasing now, “how do you fancy a little off-tourist tour?”

“We can do that?”

“Sure! I know the inside of this pyramid like the back of my hand!”

“Ok!”

“Great. We’ll come back later. In the dead of night. And break in…”

“Woah, woah, woah” Says Tod, sensibly. “Break in? No. That would be illegal. And we could get locked up for that!”

“It’s ok, we won’t get caught.” Said the archaeologist (obviously in some mystical and ancient language that makes our Tod say…)

“Oh. Ok then.” (!)

So the scene is set (is this dragging on too long for you guys already?) and Tod and his German return in the dead of night (this time, cleverly, with a camera.) They bribe a guard and head down the tourist tunnel as normal.

BUT! Aha! BUT! The German stops halfway down the tunnel and says, “Here we are.”

“Here?”

“Here.”

“But there’s nothing here.”

“Aha!” Says the German, and, from somewhere I dare not ask, a ladder appears. Climbing to the top and, apparently, behind a false ceiling there is another tunnel…

Inside the new tunnel “the German” is explaining that in an intricate maze in the heart of the great pyramid there are thirteen secret chambers cleverly hidden and sealed and, more importantly, off limits to everyone, including archaeologists…

Looooooong story short. Nine of the thirteen are still sealed, “let’s look in one.” Says he.

“No! We could receive the death penalty for that.”

I forget how the silver-tongued German talked Tod round but I’m sure it was fabulously intelligent and inspiring.

So now we are in the pitch black of a previously unsealed secret chamber in the heart of the great pyramid at midnight and in the middle of this great chamber is a statue. Of E.T. …

I swear to god I nearly punched him. One and a half hours that took. One and a half torturous bloody hours. And you know what? I swear if Tod laughed at the end he would have been, eventually, possibly, slightly, forgiven.

Obviously I am still waiting to see the pictures… holding my breath. (Maybe they’ll be in the boot of the Sinclair C5 which is on it’s way for everyone to take a spin around the car park in, but that is another story altogether.)

The sad thing is Tod is a fantasist and for that I can never forgive him. If I look real deep into my soul, here is why; the stories he’s made up so far are waaaaay better than mine but it’s not just sour grapes, honest. Ok, it is, but you don’t know that. Oh… wait… damn!

Sigh.

Ez

Right…

Following on from Vin’s schooldays blog (http://www.thewordcloud.org/magazine/read/gameand39;s-uptrousers-down_1049.html#comments) here is my collection (none of which are a patch on Vin’s experience.) All true.

And, as per Vin, may explain a lot…

 

 

 

There were three things you were warned about when you joined my senior school; “The Rat Trap”, “Crucifixions” and “Burials”. We’ll take them one at a time.

“The Rat Trap.”

Walk with me, if you will down a long, wide corridor. To the right are doors to the toilets and to the left, against the windows and perpendicular to the corridor, are row upon row of metal frames, the lower part being bench seats and above each head a coat hook typical of sports changing rooms of yore. This is the main indoor thoroughfare.

The “trap” was to populate the seats, usually at lunchtime, with eight lads per side and two lads hidden in the toilet doorway. The victim strolled along (alone, possibly, but not necessarily) and when he reached the toilet door, the two lads pushed him into the gap between the benches. The outside lads tripped our victim up and, once on the ground, the rest of them “stuck the boot in”. Depending upon the year that you attended highly influenced the level of sadist and psychotic “Rats” you were subjected to. When I fell victim to this, oh most hilarious of horseplay, I found “foetal” was my favourite word throughout the short bruising time on the ground.

Interestingly, one of my mates was somewhat of a nut-job. Lovely lad; we had a great laugh even though he did tend to call me “Loppy” (due to a nose-twitching affectation I had at the time which he decided reminded me of his rabbit… Loppy… *cough*.) Anyway… he happily informed us one day that he couldn’t wait for his turn in “The Rat Trap”. I remember his evil grin as he hauled up and waggled his foot heavily. His foot had acquired a dirty, damaged and overly large boot. In truth, he sported a pair of dirty, damaged and overly large boots. An old pair of his fathers hob-nailed work boots he happily informed us. S’funny, it’s the first time I actually remember that I couldn’t wait for lunchtime, either. Sadly, due to some misunderstanding that I am certain was not my usually well behaved self’s fault *cough*I missed his danse macabre but others tell me it was a sight to behold with him going into a full mock “tap” routine in the crowded trap. Only for a couple of seconds, you understand; bullies, by their very nature, depart quickly when they gain bruises to toes, shins and ego’s.

Not so “interestingly”, the last time the trap was sprung elucidated blue’s and two’s and a never to be seen again victim. The coat-rack benches were dismantled and the corridor became a happy place. (Except for an abortive attempt at high-brow education in the form of fencing lessons; honestly, what right minded 14 year old boy wants to wear what looked to all the world like gold lame? Although, to be fair, I did look rather fetching. Beaten to a pulp, maybe, but fetching nonetheless.)

 

“Crucifixions”

Now let us stroll outside and down one of two sets of steps separated by a long wall, a wall against which we played headers and volleys; a wall, sadly, which held the dubious honour of being another favoured method of schoolboy torture.

Grabbing a victim, usually from the same group that played headers and volleys, “the lads” would push him against said wall whilst their colleagues (is that the right word?) rushed up the stairs to grab his arms and haul him up until his feet were off the ground; “the lads” at each hand pulled in opposite directions and, bar the nails, entered a new name into a very exclusive club. Two more lads hung onto his feet and then the “penalties” would begin. Each direct hit with the ball taken at short distance, high velocity and elucidated an “oooh” from the complicit crowd, especially the "sweet" spot took a direct hit. Although, to be fair to the mindless thugs they were if nothing else adaptive; if a football was not forth coming they would happily just run up and punch their victim in the stomach or genitalia. If sad (sic) victim was lucky he was released “soon” and spared one final act of humiliation; to have his trousers and shorts pulled down. I think I must have been, oh I don’t know, five days into my new school before my first (of a few) crucifixion. Thank god I'm hung like a donkey otherwise it would have been very humiliating... (Dammit! Where’s the emoticon for sarcasm when you need it?) 

To my knowledge these barbaric acts continue today – the wall will not have been demolished and the school lowered six feet accordingly and modern children are likely no better behaved than their parents.

 

“Burials”

I love snow, me. Well, most of the time. But there was a time when snow was not a friend.

Here we walk out from the playground and onto the playing field, a wide expanse of deep powder that any ski-freak would be proud of were it not for a lack of gravity powered movement on account of it being flat. Well… flat-ish. (Never play goalie to the road end; it’s slightly downhill and easier to be beaten by a roller-ball and then, more importantly, by your team mates.)

Anyway… this time “the lads” (I’m thinking the same group as the previous two entertaining diversions) snatched their victim off the perilous safety of the giant ice-slide previously known as “the playground” and marched him down to the fields. The long journey was always accompanied by soothing talk explaining that this was merely “a rite of passage”; “everyone had been buried in their time”. All they were going to do is lie him down, cover him with snow and walk away. It was that simple.

Duly covered, head to toe, with a foot and half of snow, the victim would then be pleased to hear the fading sound of laughter as the band duly, and as agreed, moved away. A wily victim, however, decides to wait that little bit extra, just to be sure. But this was, as you have probably guessed, subterfuge at the most base level.

Once he sat up and cleared the soft snow from his face the shout (which was heart-achingly nearby) went up and he was pelted with snowballs at point blank range. It appeared, humourlessly, that the wags were duping him all along; only a couple had wandered off talking and laughing loudly. The rest had remained armed and cocked waiting for him to sit up. Of course snowballs most people could, barely, cope with. Those snowballs, however, had pebble cores and were premade out of snow and ice. Each victim was pummelled long enough for the return of the “red-herring” half of the crew and to continue the “jape”. And whilst they were firing away, the others reloaded. I heard tales of a half hour pummelling when the poor kid didn’t even try to have it away on his toes (not that he would have got far, indubitably).

 

Well, there you have it (and I reiterate that in no way do I compare my experience with Vins’); three of my most endearing memories of “school”. And people wonder why I scraped four ‘O’ levels and an attitude. I rarely wonder why, I do wonder how though…

 

Love and hugs.

Ez

Ok... so I scanned the monthly competition and thought "aww, poetry. I can't do poetry." And dropped the idea of entering this months comp.

This last five weeks have been hell and, don't ask me why, I just wrote this yesterday. It's raw and, almost, as it came to me (two slight edits). So, I thought, I'll wang this into the competition and see what ripples lap on my shore. Then I read the rules of the comp and realised it didn't fit. Sigh.

So I've blogged it instead. At the very least I'll become the third most blogging blogger on this site.

There are no warnings on this one except, maybe, that it's perhaps not what you'd expect. Of me.

It's called "A Selfish Lament" and it goes like this;

He does not have Alzheimer’s,

It’s not that awful disease,

He’s suffering from brain shrinkage;

His forest is losing its trees.

 

He does not need treating like others,

Just a nudge once in a while;

To remind him to eat, drink and

One more nudge, sadly, to smile.

 

What is it with these places?

How can they sleep at night?

The people that surround them,

Reduced to this pitiful sight?

 

Why can’t I just help him?

Why can’t I stop all his pain?

Give him a tablet or two or three

And bring back my father again?

 

My God I feel so pathetic.

My God I feel so ashamed.

I’ve screamed at you in the heavens

And by God taken your name in vain.

 

In truth God is not my problem

In truth it is me that’s at fault

I did not take up medicine

Instead I took up being a dolt

 

If I had the skills to do it

If I could only find a cure

Only then you’d know I love you

Because right now, I’m just not so sure.

 

And you know, when this is over

And time hides all that I’ve learned

I’ll still do nothing about it

Until… too late… my turn.

 

Not quite laureate standard but hell, you get the idea.
Let me know what you think with the usual comments, send knickers in the post (not you Woody) etc.

Ez

The Swansea stag night viral video on BBC has reminded me of a true story. When I was gainfully employed at a large international corporation I was lucky enough to take part in a massive multi-million dollar software development based at the companies head-office in Indianapolis USA. The project requested (but did not get) two programmer representatives from every country that had a software team and the UK sent me and an Australian guy who was working in the midlands based office. Don’t get me started on that adventure, although I may drip feed you events as future blogs.

Anyway, the last Friday in the office before the flight to the US was by happy coincidence the company’s summer party; a regular (at the time) marquee affair of booze, games, booze, food and music (and booze) held on the lower car park of the premises.

It was decided amongst the IT team, and various business units we were associated with, that this was also to be mine and EzOz’s leaving do. That was settled then. The trouble was, in preparation for our trip I had neglected to be involved in the “Team”-ings that accompanied the summer party. Ergo, the only team that needed a spare bod was… the ladies life-size foosball team. It took some negotiations but I was duly elected an honorary female and, allowing for wardrobe availability, a bet was made as to whether I had the “balls” to dress accordingly.

Thankfully, one of EzBirds loose summer frocks fit me. It was snug, but it fit. (She then went too far; asking if I was interested in wearing her stiletto’s, stockings and her sussies and I had to point out that I was only doing this for a laugh and not actually considering transvestivism as a weekend pastime… anyhoo, I swapped the stiletto idea for huge clumpy boots (Doc’s I think they were) and I was set.)

At 4:45pm on “party” Friday, I swear to God, we were summoned upstairs to the HR director’s office (dressed in smart business suits) and given the following lecture;

“You represent the UK in this endeavour. Everyone will be watching your every move. You will be exemplary in your attitude, time keeping and professionalism. You will not let us down. I am counting on you. Do you understand?”

Mumbling our acceptance we headed out and joined the buzzing excitement in the stairwell of people headed for the party. EzOz went back into our office and I went into the downstairs (gents) loo to get changed into EzBirds dress.

I promise this is true;

I left the toilets and walked straight into the HR director and her colleagues who slapped her hand to her mouth in horror and uttered the immortal words “oh god what have I done?”

Thankfully the IT director (my boss’s boss) laughed, winked at me and said “Good career move, Sheldon. Good career move.” Laughed at the HR director and walked out into the July sunshine. I grinned at the distraught woman and followed him.

(I then proceeded to get exceptionally tanked before we were knocked out of the foosball tournament in the second round. Oh, and spent most of the night fending off people (note “people”) who wanted to know if I was wearing anything underneath the frock.)

S’True. There is a photo in evidence although I must admit I have no idea where it is. It did follow me to the US where it was met (in what is essentially the bible belt of the USA) with less than favourable approval (and was on one girl’s desk for many years but aside from that I have no idea who has an extant copy of it.)

But, hey, we’ve all done it, haven’t we? Hmmm? Haven’t we? I said HAVEN’T WE?

Ez

Right... some of you may be aware that BP challenged me to write a sex scene. Some of you may also be aware that I am somewhat of a rambling writer. Some of you may not be aware of either of these two points and so it is to you I turn my bloggy-eyes, as the others will just scoff at my attempt and dissmiss it as typical EzBloke sewer substance. This, for me, was a serious attempt to write a scene, as AlanP blogged recently, that I just "don't do."

So here it is. Not my genre, not my subject matter and, if you are easily offended, not my problem...

A quick sub-note; it's not finished. In fact, it's not finished at a particularly critical point... I am still awaiting *cough* research to help pad out the female internal perspective at the end.

This is adults only. DO NOT READ if you are not, chronologicaly or intelli-quotiently, an adult. Contains strong language and scenes (hopefully) of a sexual nature.

You have been warned.

Beatrix, Imperatrix Sub Mundi.

               Just as the depth of night passed, and the call of dawn was now fractionally closer than the hush of dusk, Beatrix sat with her knees to her chin on her straw and blanket bedding. She had been thinking about this night for far too long. As her imagination ran wild and her young body responded she had, for too long now, pushed herself beyond the heavens with the swiftest and silken soft touches, leaving her gasping and releasing his name to the world. Not anymore. Not tonight. Tonight she would feel his strong arms tight around her waist, tonight she will feel his mouth on hers, sucking in his hot breath and his probing tongue. That tongue, oh that tongue, what it will do to her, where it will go in her… Already she could feel the heat rising, she could feel the ache between her legs, already she yearned to touch herself, to stimulate herself and to carry on with her wild and vivid fantasy. But not tonight! She chided herself. Her shaking hands gripped each other tighter, locking the arms she had wrapped around her knees ever tighter, her thin shift pulled down to her shins.

                Beatrix sniffed briefly, was there the merest hint of a slightly sweet smell in the air? She snorted as she stifled a giggle when realising it was her own scent. She looked around, her heart beating fast, suddenly anxious that the odour would carry across to the cots around her and rouse her fellow servants. She held her breath for what seemed like an age but none stirred beyond the tossing and turning she was used to seeing at this, her private hour. She leaned forward, consciously forcing her distended and aching nipples into her thighs, hoping for some respite and desperate to smother another round of wanton thoughts.
                Despite her young age, Beatrix was not unfamiliar with sex having lost her virginity to the shepherd Tortop a number of years ago after helping him introduce the households’ one and only ram to the ewe herd he was charged with protecting. Her deflowering was a not too unpleasant experience, the pain of his all too brief entry was nothing compared to the lashings she had endured as an errant child. Since then, Beatrix had enjoyed the tutelage of all three of the stable boys and, once, Emmalina the milkmaid. None of the boys, however, were as well endowed as the master, Borsmir.
                Called to the main house on an errand late one evening she passed his chamber window and chanced to look in just as he stepped naked from his dust covered breeches. His limp manhood hung low and from Beatrix’s side on point of view looked to be a good two hands width long. She stared in through the window, mouth open and eyes wide as he threw his dirty linen into a corner and, turning away from her, showed his powerful, muscle bound back  below which, shining white against his hirsute darkness, were his proportionately small buttocks. He leaned forward and picked clean breeches from his chair and turned to the window.
                Beatrix gasped, her eyes, still wide, flicked up from his limped groin and into his fierce, piercing blue eyes, they connected for the beat of a fairies heart and then she turned and ran, panicked, across the yard and on to the kitchens, her original destination. She strained her ears, waiting with painful heart for the muster that would seal her fate to yet another beating or perhaps worse to be banished from the household altogether. A yell that did not come, and she passed through the door into the heat of the kitchens at such speed nearly sending a young child and her water bucket flying. She rasped her message to the junior cook all the while glancing fitfully up  at the doorway.
                It was weeks later that she next came into the masters’ presence, and it was then that she caught his eye once again, only this time, he was fully clothed. The look that he gave her, however, stripped her naked and rammed her forcibly up against the wall, one leg over his forearm exposing her femininity and opening her up for that huge lance of his to enter unhindered; all in front of his guests and, more importantly, his heavily pregnant wife, the Lady Ethane.
                And now it was time. She rose, shaking from her cot, and padded quietly out the dormitory, her arms crossed tightly against her still throbbing chest, mainly to stop the light shifting of material from dropping her to the floor there and then to violently rub away the itch deep within her groin.
                Earlier in the day, she had prepared the ground, performing oral sex on one stable boy whilst another mounted her from behind like a mare. She felt like a boar roasted at a celebration. It was over all too soon, as was always the case with the boys, and she almost choked as one last lunge took her by surprise and she snorted his semen back up as she attempted to breath. But their gratitude combined with some extra coin in their pockets meant they had hit the town tavern hard and now she just had to check they were sleeping soundly. 
                The heady mix of damp horse and hay assaulted her nostrils as soon as she entered the stables. Meadowknight, the masters stallion and ignorant accomplice in her plans stood, head down in his stall and, stinking of drink and vomit, the two stable boys were dead to the world in theirs.
                Beatrix’s heart skipped and she her hands began to shake, she stumbled as her legs were almost weak with the excitement. She made her way through the house, her belly knotted and her groin practically soaking as she went over her plans in her mind. Wake the master gently, whispering quietly so as not to wake the Lady Ethane, and tell him the boys needed his help to calm a spooked Meadowknight.
                She entered the bed chambers on light feet, her hands still shaking to the beat of her thumping heart and she could barely control her twitching limbs as she made her way stealthily to her masters’ side of the bed. She released her captive breath in a stilted gush of nerves and laid her hand softly on his shoulder.
                “My Lord?” She whispered. “My Lord?”
                “Mmmm.” He barely stirred.
                Beatrix pressed harder. “My Lord? I’m sorry, but you must come to the stables…”
                “Mmmm?” He stirred and rolled over to face her. Beatrix dare not look from his still sleeping face down the bed to his crotch, exposed by a short nightshirt that had ridden up to his waist.
                “My Lord? There is trouble in the stables.” She spoke close to his ear.
                “Mmm? What?” He stirred and opened one eye, frowning.
                “The stables, my Lord. Meadowknight is… restless.” Restless? Restless? Stupid girl, she chided herself.
                “Let the boys deal with it!” He barked, still half asleep. Too loud, the Lady Ethane shifted and roused slightly. Beatrix held her breath. Ethane settled again, her back to Beatrix and her quarry.
                “The boys are drunk my Lord. I fear a fox my have nipped your horse…”
                “What?!” He woke and sat up, looking straight into her eyes.
                “I’m sorry, My Lord…” Beatrix spoke without thinking, “I didn’t want to disturb my Lady, but you must come to the stables and settle Meadowknight. I feared he may be lamed and your journey tomorrow is…”
                “Damn those boys. I’ll have them whipped if that horse is harmed.” He swung his legs off the large bed and waved Beatrix out dismissively. She turned away, reluctantly, her heart beating furiously and her mind racing with what if’s and possible regrets.
                “Borsmir? What are you doing?” It was Ethane.
                “Hush, now. Go back to sleep. I am summoned to the stables, something about a fox biting Meadowknight. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”
                “Why can’t the stable boys deal with it?”
                “Drunk, it appears.”
                “Have them whipped. What’s the point of having the damn wretches look after the stables if they do something like this… hmmm?” Her voice trailed off as she drifted back to sleep. Beatrix, at the doorway looking outside in deference to her imminent seduction, relaxed ever so slightly. Until Borsmir, with his strong hand on her shoulder pushed her ahead of him toward the stables.
                Beatrix rushed ahead with images of the two stable boys awake and tending Meadowknight worrying her mind. She felt no sense of relief when she found the stables unchanged from her sortie what seemed like hours before. Now she had to seduce him. She turned, raising her hands slightly to touch his huge chest and slow his approach. The plan was to look up into his big eyes and whisper “If it pleases you My Lord, I ask that you fuck me,” to step back and shrug her own scratchy nightshirt from her shoulders and let it fall to the ground and stand naked before her master. He would, of course take her gently in his arms and kiss her long and deep before dropping both hands to cusp her buttocks and lift her off the ground while she wrapped her long legs around his waist and settle slowly down to be impaled upon his enormous cock.
                Borsmir, however, stepped round her, his eyes only upon the placid Meadowknight. He placed one hand on the horses high rump and leant down like a master blacksmith to inspect the horses hind leg.
                “My lord…” Beatrix began.
                “Hush child.” Borsmir straightened up, and threw her a fierce frown crowned look as he stepped to the horse’s, now alert, head. “Damned if I can see any bites, and I thought you said he was unsettled?” His harsh voice boomed in the large, waste-odour heavy, barn.
                “My… Lord…” She faltered. This was not going to plan.
                “What did you get me up in the dead of night to see child?” He turned to her, the anger in his eyes and the towering physique she spent so long yearning for made her step back, nervous. Her excitement was replaced with fear, with uncertainty. “Well?! Don’t just stand there with your mouth open, child! Answer me!”
                Something inside Beatrix was fighting, deep inside her, she wanted to strip and seduce the man of the house, but its enemy was the overwhelming sense of fear that it would be misplaced, that she was wrong about his hungry desire for her, that one look from him was not enough to be certain this, she, was what he wanted.  And the fear was winning. She had to do something, say something, anything.
                “M…me.” She said in a half whisper, her face flushed scarlet and burning, her throat constricted and dry. She stared at him and time hung seconds on the coat hook marked hours as nothing happened. “Me.” She said again, quietly, waveringly still, but deliberately.
                Before Borsmir could reject her, she shrugged in her nightshirt, the smooth flowing drop failing to occur as planned, as practiced. The shift steadfastly remained on her shoulders, and she shakily moved her hand up to brush it gently, then more determinedly over her pale skin. The shift took it’s course and fell to the ground and Beatrix suddenly realised that maybe summer would have been a better season to stand naked before the object of her lust.
                Borsmir, watched her with a mind still angry at the intrusion, a mind still half asleep and a mind still concerned for his horse. He heard the uncertainty in her voice and the shaking stilted movements of her hands. He watched, unmoving, as she shrugged and one rounded shoulder saw the flickering light of the oil lamps and he couldn’t help the laughter that began in his belly as the young serving girl had to force her nightshift off the other shoulder. He threw his head back and laughed, and when his gaze returned he stared at the naked girl.
                Beatrix felt sick. Borsmir’s laugh made her want to run, the cold against her skin overriding the heat of her embarrassment, the golden-yellow straw beneath his feet in stark contrast to her bright-red tinged porcelain-white skin. She passed her hands over her exposed breasts and covered her small blonde patch of pubic hair. Her head hung low and she was an instant from turning and running away.
                Borsmir drank in the matchless beauty of Beatrix’s naked body. His eyes fed greedily on her large yet self-supporting breasts, the deep crevasse that formed as she forced them together in her faux attempt to hide her body. His gaze dropped to her right hand that, long fingers flat against her pubic mound, covered her sex. And inside he felt the demon lust awake, first visiting his belly, then raising his standard. His mind filled with craven images and wanton acts and penis surged with blood, crudely lifting his nightshirt. He stepped forward, his only thought was to own those soft, wet, bee-stung lips, to taste them, to feel her breath and to lick the roof of her mouth. He would suck her tongue out from its luscious cavern and let it play on the taste meadows of his.
                Beatrix looked up, her breath caught as Borsmir stepped forward. His huge head dipped down and, with one giant hand on the back of her head, crushed her closed lips on his. Their lips worked together and she opened them as his tongue announced its triumphant conquest accompanied by a warm mead-strewn zephyr that filled her widening hungry mouth. His other hand swept round behind her back and pressed across the slight valley above her spine, squashing her tightly onto his chest. Her hands, dropped from covering her shame, reached up and made to hold her new lover but Borsmir broke the embrace, his head rising beyond Beatrix’s searching, gasping reach. He stood up, proud and erect, and held her at arms length, and she searched for meaning in his eyes. She found it; it was lust, unadulterated lust. He almost stared through her, she could see his mind whirling and a look of, what she took as fear of discovery, crossed his face.
                “I’m yours to command, My Lord.” She whispered.
                “Hush, child!” He frowned.
                Borsmirs face took on a look of concern as he scanned the surroundings looking for an empty stall, whereupon he would exorcise the last month’s frustrations upon the altar of this young maid’s virginity. His mind raced with games to play, acts to perform and a perfect body to violate. But first, he had to release the pressure of four weeks of sexless pleasure or even relief as his heavily pregnant wife drew further from bedchamber activity. This girl has awoken something in him that a thousand horses could not stop. He looked around, not for location as much as just delaying the inevitable whilst he considered how he would take her.
                Beatrix, watching Borsmir look about, was beginning to feel the strength of his grip on her arms and whilst she did not bruise easily, his hold on her was dousing her ardour.
                “I have prepared the stall next door with an extra layer of hay, My Lord…”
                She was manhandled around the corner and pushed forward, twisting to land on her back. She giggled nervously as she looked up as Borsmir, framed in the stall entrance against the dim flickering light of distant lamps, and the coarse nightshift which was rendered see-through. Her nipples ached as she stared at the mountain he was making of his shirt hem and, unconsciously, she reached up to release his engorged penis.
                “Oh…My Lord.” She whispered as she flipped his nightshirt up and back to rest loosely at the base of his large cock. She held her breath as her fingers reached slowly out and touched the veined and rugged looking side.
                Borsmir, stood looming over her naked and prone body, sucked in the cool night air as she curled her fingers slowly around his shaft and watched as Beatrix, wide-eyed, stared transfixed at his pride. In an instant he made a decision and reached over, put his large hand on her head and hauled her forcibly up until her face was level with his manhood. He looked down on her, showing no emotion, and stared into her corn-flower blue eyes. He leaned over her and the weight of his cock brought it to the horizontal. He pulled her head back into position and as her lips parted to object he thrust forward and into her mouth. 
                “Suck it.” He demanded.
                No! No! This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This wasn’t what she wanted. What use is this? She wanted him inside her. Deep inside her. She wanted to feel joined, connected, filled by him. This was for him and him alone, and that was no good. Usually, with the other boys, this lasted no time at all and the buggers would roll away leaving her to finish herself off. Or sometimes just curse them and wander back to her chores, unsatisfied and sometimes even feeling decidedly unexcited.
                But if this was all I get, she thought to herself… her mind turned back to the sensations of the head of his cock inside her mouth.

PREMATURE END

So what do you think then...?

Ez.
:o)

Usual warnings - not so much swearing but adult of theme and drivelling nonsense of content...

 

Whilst blasting out my eardrums to the rousing joy that is Elgar’s Pomp & Circumcision, on repeat, I realised to my horror, once I began to actually listen to the words I was screeching out in my tremeloed baritone-less vibrato, that this mainstay of Britishness, this backbone-tingling pride-pomp was in fact Victorio-Edwardio-pornio! (The words were originally penned as a coronation ode for Edward VII – that’s “seventh” not “vee-eye-eye”) S’true. Follow me, oh gullible lovely reader as I show you what I mean. Not too close, I don’t know you that well…

 

Land of Hope and Glory,

Where’s that then? Show me a land of hope and glory and I’ll show you a sea of legal-sharks and narcissists. And why the hell would we want to live in a land of hope anyway? That presumes there’s something to be hopeful for; ergo something to escape from, doesn’t it? I’d rather live in a land of “ohhh, we have that already.”

As for “Glory”, now you’re talking. Every morning without fail *cough*. Anyway… in Australia there is a weather based phenomenon where a long sausage shaped cloud rolls overhead in a majestic display of natural beauty. Typical of the Aussies, their humour shines through as this is duly named Morning Glory too. Although, EzBird said “wishful thinking” would have been more apt…

So this line is about a land of expectant erections then…

Mother of the Free,

See, I always sang this as Mother of the Three and just assumed it was Big G, Little G and Spooky but then I realised that was unlikely but only after I found out that the Bible, despite being written in English, was in fact foreign and I felt a right chump. (I don’t ever touch my left chump on account of the swelling…)

Now this may be a little harder to swallow (chortle) but the main thrust of this line (snigger) is about the woman who is to set the “wee men” loose. If you catch my drift (Tee hee). (I’m euphemising over sperm here or was that already understood...?)

 

How shall we extol thee,

By building a new M6 next to the old M6 and charging you to go on it? Oh wait, no, that’s a toll. Ah but if we used to have to pay to cross over a bridge and now we don’t (bear with me on this) then surely the bridge is now “extol”? No? Ok. Weak, I know.

Extol is an olde English word for “release”; don’t bother Googling it, I made it up but without it my whole argument is just rubbish. (What do you mean “yes”?) So this line is “decisions, decisions; is it better to have one in the hand than one in her bush?” I know, I know… I’ll get me coat.

Who are born of thee?

Who is born of a land of Hope and Glory? Legal-sharks and narcissists. I just said. Keep up.

Or Pixies but that is only because they have to be born somewhere.

Or this could be sperm again. It’s the supposition of “born”, into the weak premise that these words are in some way a double entendre that leads one, via huge leaps of a depraved imagination, to the conclusion that it is poetry speak for “spermatozoa” on account that “How shall we extol thee, Spermatozoa…” just does not have any rhythmic timbre, rhyming couplet or religious cachée caché chachet buggerit -ness. Oh and it wouldn’t be a double entendre, it would be a single entendre or entendre. Or just a statement.

Wider still and wider

Sounds like a couple of women I know but shouldn’t...
This is obviously a reference to girth, capacity or demand for gymnastic manoeuvres.

Shall thy bounds be set,

Is it me or has this tune just dipped into bondage…?

God who made thee mighty,
Ah, the mating cry of men everywhere. Well, the first word anyway. The rest is just being boastful…

 

Make thee mightier yet.

As in “don’t stop.” At this point, the chorus is giving it some welly or crescending as I like to call it *cough*. Interestingly, if inaccurately, the word crescendo is derived, etymologically, from the same root word as orgasm. Again don’t bother looking that up on Google, just take my word for it. Don’t use Wikipedia either; everyone knows that is wrong. Also I made it up as the rude references in the words became harder (chortle) to make up.

 

God who made thee mighty,

Yes, you said that already…

Make thee mightier yet.

And repeat…

 

QED.

 

I am disgusted and disgraced and hope that the surviving descendents of the decadent Arthur Christopher Benson (1862-1925; the son of a former Archbishop of Canterbury, a poet and schoolmaster at Eton), who wrote the words that taint Edwards lovely tune, are duly ashamed of themselves. But then again.. it could just be me…

 

All these years the truth has been hidden (except from public schoolboys who know about these things) until now! Now it is free! Run free! Run! Run my lovelies! Out of the closet and free to face the world! And shout and scream and tell everyone your dirty little secret! Run, I say! Run! Before they push you back into the cupboard with the flour monster and baked-bean ogres!

 

Anyway…

No need to comment on this one… I already know what you are thinking… sigh.

 

Ez

Usual warnings; don't read this if easily offended, mature or friendless...
(Contains expletives. No, not explosives; expletives. Sigh.)

So I was feeling somewhat flowery for EzBird’s birthday (I know it was in August but I've been busy and had to put this drivel on hold), looking for inspiration for a small ditty that I traditionally put into her birthday card. I began, as I always do, with a complete brain dump and then refined it into the polished and, if I may say so myself, reasonably lovely piece that follows;

Poetry
May not be
Your particular
Cup of tea.
But, Poetry
Is what I see
Every time
I look at thee.

Ok, so the “thee” is a bit shit, but all in all I was very proud of my accomplishments. I duly copied the rhythmic rhyming into the blank space on the inside of EzBird’s card and all was well in my world.

The truth is; this simple piece took me four hours to conjure up and some of the previous attempts swayed dangerously from crap to crass via vomit inducing.

Take for example, my first attempt;

If I build you a castle,
If I build you a moat,
When can my penis
Feel the back of your throat?

This ditty was quickly abandoned as it was considered by some (EzCat) to be “not in the spirit of good wishes that accompanies someone else’s birthday.” A fair point he made, despite being a soft ball of ginger purr, and so I had to concede.

But I was thinking, and spurred by memories of an episode of Apprentice where a new “greetings card” day was their task, I wondered if I had just stumbled upon a niche market; the begging for sex card. Now don’t get me wrong this is unlikely to be the final title of this range of unsubtle and direct requests for forni-gratification. I should think “Fumble Me Day” or “F’me Day” (Fmee Day. See what I did there?) is going to be up on the list. Although I presume that this requirement is likely to be 365 days a year.

Let’s face it, what better way to ask your partner (or maybe it isn’t your partner, hmmm? Maybe a work colleague? Hmmm? Or one of your group of friends, you naughty people you) for some loving? Why would you need a card, I hear you ask. Well I don’t know, you’re the one in Clintons with a moist crotch, you tell me...

I can see, however, where this may have a slight sticky point… *cough*… it would be just like condom’s; whomever is slightly embarrassed to hand over the coinage needed for a packet of silky synthetic sperm socks may well also find issue with purchasing a card that reads;

The anonymity of this card has me buoyed;
When can I pop round to fill your void?

In essence, whilst the current youth culture, according to the newspapers, is one of sexting and promiscuity (unfortunately I was born in the mid sixties so I’ve missed both these fucking boats… and according to my experience virginity is rife amongst forty year olds and as far as I can work out “sexting” means telling me to fuck off when I ask for money), I believe there is a market for something beyond risqué and is summed up (as am I) by the phrase “I don’t do subtle”.

So what do you think? Will Hallmark take my idea and pay a penny for every “begging for sex” card sold? Worldwide? Ye gods, I’d be a millionaire by Wednesday week on the UK market alone! So, boys and girls, would you buy one? What would you say if you received one? Answers on a postcard… or, better yet, a Hallmark card that pays a penny royalty to yours truly!

Ez

 

This is my favourite pop song; I’ve included the English translation for those that can barely speak Latin. Can you guess what it is yet…? :o)

Latin                                                     Engrish
O Fortuna                                           O Fortune,
velut luna                                            like the moon
statu variabilis,                                 you are changeable,
semper crescis                                  ever waxing
aut decrescis;                                    and waning;
vita detestabilis                                hateful life
nunc obdurate                                  first oppresses
et tunc curat                                      and then soothes
ludo mentis aciem,                         as fancy takes it;
egestatem,                                          Poverty
potestatem                                         and power
dissolvit ut glaciem.                       it melts them like ice.
Sors immanis                                    Fate – monstrous
et inanis,                                             and empty,
rota tu volubilis,                              you whirling wheel,
status malus,                                     you are malevolent,
vana salus                                           well-being is vain
semper dissolubilis,                       and always fades to nothing,
obumbrata                                         Shadowed
et velata                                               and veiled
michi quoque niteris;                    you plague me too;
nunc per ludum                                now through the game
dorsum nudum                                 I bring my bare back
fero tui sceleris.                               to your villainy.
Sors salutis                                        Fate is against me
et virtutis                                            in health
michi nunc contraria,                    and virtue,
est affectus                                         driven on
et defectus                                          and weighted down,
semper in angaria.                          always enslaved.
Hac in hora                                        So at this hour
sine mora                                            without delay
corde pulsum tangite;                   pluck the vibrating strings;
quod per sortem                              since Fate
sternit fortem,                                  strikes down the string man,
mecum omnes plangite!               everyone weep with me!

I love this piece so much, it is devilishly addictive and plays over and over and over again!

I have a “demon-rising” image in my mind when this plays. Lots of “head down, eyes to camera” as the female lead (mostly naked…) chants her way through it. I love the Latin, the staccato, the power and intensity; I love the rising tempo, the urgency and insanity.

This is music to have sex by. Shame it’s such a long piece… ;o) Oh, all right it’s too short. Well, you girls have Bolero, we blokes have Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi (Fortune, Empress of the World) commonly known as Carmena Burana for the uninitiated, though how anyone could not have heard this piece I’ll never know.

Ez

Usual stuff – don’t read if easily offended as I swear a bit in this one…

Today’s subject is milk.

Specifically Cravendale  or more specifically their adverts. I want to say this;

No no no no no no no no no no no NO! Just NO! All capital letters, shouty, screamy, just … just… just… NO! Who, in God’s name, thought those adverts were “a good idea”? Seriously? No. I refuse to buy their product.

So what that I now know of the company and their product? So what if their marketing department has ticked a box, then. Yes they have BUT it is the wrong box; Marketing ticked the “even bad publicity is good publicity” box whereas I have ticked the “if their advert is so shockingly sh*te then their product is too” box. And even if the product isn’t that bad then tough because they have got me so incensed at the poor… poor… poor what? “Quality”? I cannot even use that word in the same sentence; “Thought process”? Gah! If there was a thought process it defies imagination! It’s just so…frustratingly… cringingly… aggravatingly… poor. Is it funny? No. Quirky? No. Surreal? No. Informative? No. Entertaining? NO! It makes me want to throw things at the television, so I have to say yes to “emotive” despite every fibre of my being screaming against the slightest positive point to this banal and utterly stupid series of adverts. Cravendale are, according to Cravendale, the UK’s number 1 milk brand. How? Just how? Why is their complete customer base not turned off the nano-second these adverts begin? According to my IQ, “the adverts are along the lines of the Belgian…” that’s when I switched off.

For pity’s sake; yet another company that thinks quirky foreign rubbish is going to appeal to the mass British market. When will you bloody people learn? I don’t buy your product because its advert is barely (read cheaply) lip-synched or over-dubbed by a narcolepsy inducing (usually American) drawl or, whilst I’m at it, an annoyingly clichéd 50’s gangster panda (you should have been shot for sullying this magnificent creature with this diabolically shit advert) that cannot pronounce the word biscuit (biss-kit for fucks sake, it’s not difficult). No, these are the reasons I do NOT buy your product. The same as every other intelligent, and there are a vast number of us here in the good old United States of Britain, person does because foreign marketing mechanisms do not work on me BECAUSE I’M NOT BLOODY FOREIGN. Jesus, will someone slap these people. I’m English. Now use some of that money you have to figure out what really, really, really pisses the English off and avoid it like the fucking plague if you want a sale. I am NOT xenophobic, don’t you dare! I AM in, have been brought up in, was poorly schooled in, and will ultimately be NHS terminated in, England; ergo I appeal to the “English” demographic. (I am also an early-forties *cough*white male so your advert should lower its tone instantly. You want to sell me something? Slap a decent fizzog over a deep and obvious cleavage next to a can of lager whilst standing just in front and to one side of a telly showing football and insinuating that said “babe” will pop round to mine whilst EzBird is shopping and be very fallatitious if only, and only if, I would buy your stupid product. To the theme tune of Benny Hill. What? Of course it’s not politically correct but it is my demographic. What can I say? I’m not a Londoner; I live in the real world.)

I implore someone at Cravendale; please, make a decent advert. It’s milk for fucks sake. How hard can it be? “Milk; it comes from breasts.” That’s the male population sorted. “Milk, it’s better for the skin than the “protein” you’re boyfriend tries to make you swallow.” Women everywhere will empathise. Children? Easy; “Milk; schools stopped giving it out for free. Screw the schools; stand up for yourself. Drink Milk, you little rebel.” For the lactose intolerant? “Consider milk nature’s way of telling you; fiddling under a cow is unnatural.” I have no idea why the lactose intolerant would consider buying milk on this basis, by the way, but I’m buggered if I’m going to edit this drivel…

As you may be able tell (remember; I don’t do subtle), the mind-numbingly awfulness of a Cravendale advert had me in a bad mood so the next advert in the chain was going to get a right royal pasting. No matter what it was (Unless it was Kylies Agent Provocateur ad, but it wasn’t…) and I had an epiphany. So here is a tip for anyone associated with a television campaign; before your advert is aired, add to the check list (“what program/soap is it being aired amongst?”, “does it suit our demographic?”, “Is there anything we can do better?”) “is that fucking Cravendale advert on before ours?” because you just do not want collateral damage. In truth, it may be the only way to get the damnable things exorcised from our lives forever; “no-one wants to be before or after your advert so we won’t be screening it ever again, sorry.” Well, I’m not sorry. Well, not unless their adverts were thought up by a five year old… Oh, god, they were, weren’t they? Now I just feel bad.

Ez

WARNING: This blog may NOT be considered in good taste by everyone. Hell, I wrote it and even I am beginning to think it is in bad taste. I blame Girls Aloud, it was whilst thinking of them that the notion came to me. I don’t know why.

So… ready? Ok. This one is called “Swine flu and the job market…”

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not being frivolous here; I’m being practical. The word on the street is “Big Issue, Please?” … hold on, wait… nope, wrong rant… the word in New Scientist was that if Swine flu lived up to it’s ancestral sibling (?), Spanish Flu, we could be looking at anywhere between 25 and 33 percent…um… shortfall (?) in the population… (Unlike Chimney Flu which only burnt up 2 percent of the population last year. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Ahhhh. *cough* It’s not funny really… sorry.)

Anyway, this got me to thinking…;

If such a huge loss to the working population were to happen, amongst the business continuity plans that are being hastily contrived how many of those plans include the possibility that some jobs are, maybe, superfluous? Like “Weather Forecasters” for example? We could re-deploy these useless buggers elsewhere (to be street cleaners, for example, but not in a “bring out yer dead” python-esque manner because that would be gruesome and fear-mongering upon such an emotive subject and denigrate what I am trying to achieve here. Don’t ask what it is that I am trying to achieve here as I do not know; the music was on and I started typing… what else did you want from me? Enlightenment? Sheesh. ) and replace their oft-lying diatribe with a poster that just says “changeable”.

There are so many other jobs that could be considered “luxury” ill-afforded by a post-apocalyptic society. Such as “sports commentators”, “Jeremy Clarkson’s Political Correctness Advisor” (a post that has, thankfully, been seemingly vacant for some time now) and “Policemen” (a post that has been seemingly vacant for some time now…) but what other posts can be considered such? And bear in mind that when you do retire the job, any vacant positions’ vacant occupier’s need to be usefully employed elsewhere.

Discuss.

Ez