Control of the passes

Dirty Mind by Prince

Hello. What’s up? Oh forget it. 

This week I have been listening to the incredible Prince album ‘Dirty Mind’ and I would really like to tell you all about it. Released in 1980 it sees Prince cutting loose from his previous smooth soul vibes to basically be an utter sex pest in musical form for about half an hour, and consequently is one of my favourite albums of his - and I like them all, up until the point he did a bad mental, started writing words wrong on his face and releasing triple albums through the Daily Mail. And yes, that does mean I quite like Batdance. 

Anyway, the album kicks off with the song ‘Dirty Mind’ wherein  Prince shows that he evidently spent most of the earnings from his previous records on the most cutting-edge Bontempi keyboard he could find in Poundland. Lyrically it will no doubt come as a surprise to you to learn that the song is basically a hymn to how much of an unbelievably disgusting pervert the man is, and as such aptly sets the tone for the rest of the album. At one stage Prince rather peculiarly suggests to a young lady that he can ‘buy’ a dirty mind for her, although where one would go in order to purchase such an item I have absolutely no idea. (NOTE TO SELF: LOOK INTO WHERE PRINCE BUYS DIRTY MINDS. ORDER 12 PACK).

The next song is chuggy New Wave-y number ‘When You Were Mine’, one of his most best loved songs and so popular that it has been covered by literally everyone, ever. Lonely old Prince can not believe that his sexy lady has basically walked out on him, although not before shagging half of his friends and then making him sleep in their communal sex wetness. This walk-out is all the more unbelievable given that Prince allowed the shameless harlot to wear ALL of his clothes, although judging from the cover of Dirty Mind there wasn’t much to choose from and this gesture may have actually precipitated the break-up of the relationship now I think about it. Anyway, Prince contents himself with following his ex and her new man around in a way that is totally not creepy in any way, no doubt whilst at the same time performing an unnecessarily elaborate and ostentatious act of ‘self-harm’ in the way that only Prince can.

Next song is ‘Do It All Night’, although Prince singularly and disappointingly fails to go into any detail as to what he actually intends for us to be doing all night with him. Little ‘heads-up’ my diminutive purple friend: more specifics needed if you’re going to make it in this business. What, one asks, could you possibly want to do ALL NIGHT? The only thing that I can think of is maybe a ‘Mike and Molly’ marathon with plenty of fiery ginger beer and Angel Delight, although I would need to warn Prince that around 3am I do get quite tired/handsy.

‘Gotta Broken Heart Again’ is a swingy little number that has the advantage of being short and no more will therefore be said on the matter.

The next song is party-disco-super-anthem ‘Uptown’, which I assume is about the same place that Billy Joel went to pick up prostitutes all those years ago when we were young, idealistic and free from inflammation/itching. Lyrically Prince seems to imagine an ideal world where people just go completely nuts partying in purple velvet suits all the time without the fricking MAN telling them to shut up, go home or put their underpants back on. Frankly this is a place I want to live and I would like to go there with Prince. Within this song some woman who is clearly borderline deranged asks Prince whether he is gay - SOMEONE clearly hasn’t been paying attention.

In the following song, ‘Head’, Prince decides that he can’t spend all his time imagining utopian futures for wild party freaks who just can’t stop bringing the heat no matter how much their suit is itching and understandably takes some time out to describe how much he enjoyed persuading a bride on the way to her wedding to suck him off. In my opinion it is when Prince takes everyday situations like this and holds a mirror up to our normal lives that we realise just how universal his lyrical subject matter is.

The next song is ‘Sister’, a a lovely paean to Prince’s elder sibling. Hearing the lyrics of this song and the description of his young life it comes as no surprise to me that Prince has turned into such a well-rounded individual with a healthy, near-ascetic attitude to sex. 

The final song on the album, ‘Partyup’, basically makes it clear that even though the record is coming to an end Prince has no intention of settling down on the settee with a copy of TV Quick and a dandelion and nettle infusion, and that he thinks that anybody who thinks different can basically suck his balls or something equally bad because he has had it with people not wanting to party or wear medieval-style outfits or just walk around in a French military uniform with no underpants on getting sucked off pretty much constantly. “Take that, fuckheads!” Prince seems to be saying on this song. “I’m drinking neat Taboo and I haven’t seen my top in about 10 minutes! Also I have some lovebeads in me.” It is basically impossible not to at least party a little bit while listening to this song, even if it means taking your socks off for 5 minutes and thinking about Andre Villas-Boas in cycling shorts.

So, in short, ‘Dirty Mind’ is an incredible record and you should totally listen to it immediately, although not without first having cleared some space and covered your furniture in wipe-clean sheeting. What are you waiting for? 

No, really. Don’t piss me off.

The FA Cup Final

Hello everybody it’s me again. Pull yourself together. As you may have gathered, given my incredible metrosexual lifestyle and rampant alcoholism I have unfortunately been struggling to carve some ‘blog-time’ out of my busy schedule, packed as it is with zumba classes, power brunches and violent, violent masturbation. However I strongly urge you to turn that frown upside-down as I have managed to find a few moments to myself by nipping out of the bi-weekly North Leeds and Wetherby Dogging Society’s jamboree (Trevor will just have to start pulling his weight, dammit) in which to tell you all about an incredible annual event that I have totally just discovered, namely the FA Cup Final. 

The FA Cup Final is an incredible event which as far as I can tell is at least 7 years old and may even go back further, no-one is quite sure. Essentially it involves a red team and a blue team turning up in North London with one thing and one thing only on their minds, namely handing the ass of the other team to them in as spectacular way as possible in front of their friends, family, business associates, passing acquaintances and a TV audience of literally dozens of people. If life has kicked you in the balls (yet again) and you are unfortunate enough not to have a ticket BUT you own a TV then you have totally hit easy street in a big way because you can catch the entire game from the comfort of your own hammock, power-recliner or massage chair, with only the small inconvenience of having the coverage interrupted now and again by men who look like they’ve spent the last twenty years drinking Skol waxing lyrical about ‘tickleballs’ and other stuff that doesn’t make any sense. I totally watched this so-called ‘FA Cup Final’ on television and I can assure you it was incredible. Basically the blue team turned up and just kicked the ball like they generally didn’t give a rat’s ass about anybody or anything because they were the best and they weren’t going to stand for any bullshit from the red team or the guys with purple faces who’d turned up with them. This totally pissed the red team and their ruddy-nosed supporters off big time so they totally used a lot of bad words about the blue team and even said some pretty mature stuff to the guy dressed in black in the middle of the field who wouldn’t stop blowing his whistle for like the entire match. Yeah, it was pretty cool the first couple of times but by the end of the game that particular party trick had got very tired, let me tell you. Anyway, both the red team and the blue team ran around like motherfuckers for what seemed like an eternity until everybody stopped playing and they decided that the blue team were the best after all, which really pissed the red team off because they had all bought fancy suits and conditioned their hair thinking that this was their big day and now those shitbags in blue had basically fisted all their hopes and dreams in the space of an afternoon. The blue team however seriously did not give a fuck by this point and celebrated as only men in their 30s can, namely by drinking Budweiser out of champagne bottles and balancing some ornaments on their head. That shit was crazy and I am still getting over it. 

So there you have it. Enquiries have revealed that they are going to hold another one of these ‘Cup Finals’ next year, a prospect so exciting I can barely breathe. I’m pretty sure that the red team are going to have a serious point to prove next year and are probably already talking about how much they hate that blue team already, with their insane partying and can-do attitude to ornament balancing. In short, I totally recommend that you check out this incredible sporting fixture when it rolls around next year. In the words of Flavor Flav: “Flavor Flav.”

Captain America

Hey everybody. Calm down. Anyway, I just thought I’d drop you a quick line to check in, touch base, or whatever it is that people with their fingers and other extremities all over the pulse do when they need to confirm that they’ve not ended up in a ditch or in the back of a sexual predator’s Toyota Aygo. Anyway, tonight I watched ‘Captain America’ and I would like to tell you about it.

‘Captain America’ is an incredible film about a man called Chris Evans who used to be able to fly whilst on fire but now has a shield that enables him to bang pretty much anybody he likes. Please don’t confuse this Chris Evans though with the one who gave so much incredible sexual pizzazz with Gaby Roslin on the Big Breakfast all those years ago when we were young, carefree and the thought of voluntarily getting into the back of a stranger’s Toyota Aygo was just a pipe-dream/nightmare. Anyway, Captain America, who we’ve been hearing so much about, used to be a bit of a wet blanket when it came to ass-kicking - in fact more often than not Captain-America-before-he-was-Captain-America would frequently get his tush handed to him by ginger guys who would never in a million years be able to kick Captain America’s ass normally even though they were patriotic Americans and therefore ALL RIGHT. Anyway, this German guy whose drinking we turn a blind eye to turns Captain-America-before-he’s-Captain-America into Captain America and then ensues a whole lot of SWEET BUTTOCK being handed to BAD NAZIS who just can’t handle it one little bit and who consequently proceed to freak out and just generally go insane and kill themselves rather than have Captain America show their rear end who is the boss, ie. him. Then some fuckbag with a really red face gets all pissed off that Captain America has become all super buff and oily and consequently decides that enough is enough dammit and he for one is not standing for that kind of bullshit not now not ever. Without wanting to spoil the film, this fucking raging arsecandle of a red-faced Nazi tries to blow up the world - fortunately for everyone Captain America, not one for half-measures, manages to stop the ultra-puce ultra-nationalist in his tracks in a manner that I wasn’t quite following and then by crashing a plane in the Arctic Circle, which is apparently adjacent to New York, manages to end World War II and pretty much give rise to the sweet lives that we all lead now with laserdiscs, Google Wave and Samuel L Jackson. 

In short, ‘Captain America’ will surprise a lot of people, especially if they have never seen a film before. I certainly learnt a great deal from this film which they don’t teach you in the history books, most probably because THE MAN and/or the liberal media want to keep this important shit suppressed. Regardless, if you enjoy seeing Nazis being taken to school by a guy not averse to wearing a woollen pantsuit then you could do a lot worse than checking out ‘Captain America’. However if by chance you have successfully managed to negotiate puberty there is a high probability that you might want to venture further afield in your cinematic choices to more esoteric fare such as ‘American Pie presents Band Camp’, for example.

Stay tuned for more incredible insights on the history of film, especially as I have just noticed that Halloween 6 is about to start in 10 minutes. Michael Myers done go BANANAS in that one.

Peace out.

Bad albums by bands you like - No.1: The Eternal Idol by Black Sabbath

Hello again. Yeah, I know. This week, for reasons that I’m going to keep to myself in case either MI6 or my mum are checking my online activities (again) I have been indulging in a little exercise that I like to call rather pithily “Listening To Bad Albums By Bands You Like”. Essentially any good band with a substantial enough back catalogue will have produced some stinkers and because I am a man who laughs in the face of both danger and keyboard solos I have taken it upon myself to undertake some enquiries, a few phone calls and - more often than not - quite a bit of lying down.

The first record I plumped for was ‘The Eternal Idol’ by Black Sabbath, released in 1989, and some considerable time after what is generally regarded as the band’s heyday of the 70s, when Ozzy introduced us all to Satan by wearing tassles and jumping up and down while trying to touch his toes. Now, I like the Ozzy stuff, I like the Dio stuff - I even like the record they made with Sir Ian of Gillan-shire, ‘Born Again’, on which the former Deep Purple frontman decided, I assume, that it would be an excellent idea to record all the vocals in one take after a ten mile run. However, whilst Tony Iommi from the original line-up is still on board, the personnel on ‘The Eternal Idol’ are almost unrecognisable compared to those one would normally associate with Black Sabbath. For starters, the man in charge of vocals is multi-instrumentalist new boy Tony ‘The Cat’ Martin - I’m not sure if anybody ever called him ‘The Cat’ but I’ve decided to try and jazz up his name as it sounded a bit weak next to ‘Ozzy Osbourne’ and ‘Ronnie James Dio’, my rationale being that cats are mysterious but approachable, something Peter Criss taught us all those years ago before he went badly mental and ended up looking like a geriatric version of ALF. Talking of Peter Criss, the man in charge of drums on this record is Eric Singer, who is currently sitting behind the kit in Kiss - although I believe he adopts the character of ‘The Fox’, a fact, amongst many others, over which Peter Criss must be kicking himself. Eric Singer seems to have a full grasp of what we drummers like to call ‘the beat’, although on ‘The Eternal Idol’ he has apparently opted for a snare drum sound that is louder than everything else on the record, as well as any other ambient noise that might be in your area, including cars backfiring and jet engines taking off. Oh well, it was the 80s and those guys made their own rules, right? 

Anyhow, the record’s all right (I guess) but it IS 80s-ified like a bad motherlover, with most of Iommi’s riffs buried underneath a ton of shiny, shiny production and the sort of penis-shrivelling power vocals that make me think that ‘The Cat’ must surely have been doing his takes wearing nothing but a cape and maybe a loincloth or something - made out of human teeth, perhaps. Anyway, it’s all pretty bombastic stuff and shows a gritty determination by the keyboard player to shoehorn into every song as much futuristic diddling from the 25th Century as is humanly possible. It loses its way a bit when The Cat decides to eschew the usual mystical lyrical topics of ‘druids’, ‘ancient evil’ and ‘nondescript spookiness’ to bang on about fighter pilots and dogfights and whatnot - look mate, Bruce Dickinson has got that end of things sewn up, so don’t even fucking think about it. 

In short, if you like an ice-cream scoop of power with your metal I’m fairly certain you’ll absolutely piss your tassly leather trousers at this record. If however you don’t want to suffer the embarrassment of having your mum know you wet yourself next time she does your laundry, or alternatively if you like a little bit of bass on your music then I would suggest you might want to skip this particular opus and try something from the Ozzy/Dio period. Or equally if you like listening to records which seem to have been recorded in an underground bunker next door to where all the mics were set up then you could try ‘Born Again’. The choice really is yours.

Toodlepip.

Pounding the streets.

Holla. As I will never tire of telling people, this week I have been laid low with an ailment that the woman in the NHS Direct call centre insists is just ‘the common cold’ but which I suspect is the rather less common ‘ebola’ (or similar). Anyway, whatever exotic disease decided to take up residence in my body this week I pretty much kicked its ass without even trying, helped only slightly by a capacious intake of cold and flu medication that showed flagrant disregard for both my internal organs and any other road users. In short, I was ill and now I’m not.

Indeed I was feeling so much better that I decided that today was the day when I would walk TO and indeed FROM work - basically my ass cheeks have been pretty rebellious of late and I felt that now was the time to show them who was boss, ie. me. And boy did the twins take a pounding today as I totally romped all over the Yorkshire countryside, accompanied only by The Scorpions’ rock masterpiece ‘Animal Magnetism’ - an album that runs the gamut of questionable lyrical content from such heady topics as ‘having it off with a woman who appears to have only one leg and a wig’ all the way through to ‘why my girlfriend/wife should allow me to have sex with other women on a pretty much constant basis’. They don’t make records like that any more - especially not one that has a cover featuring both a woman and a German Shepherd kneeling down in front of a man, a man who I assume it’s fairly safe to say likes to play the boss in his relationships. He’s even drinking a bottle of Carlsberg as if to say “I like nothing better on a Wednesday than getting fellated by my girlfriend while the dog watches and I have a beer. Anybody who has a problem with that can get down on their bloody knees as well.” I admire this man and think of him often, especially when I am in the local swimming baths or taking photos of myself in my basement. 

Anyway, walking into work was pretty amazing and made my thighs and nipples burn white hot for a sustained period of time, which I know everybody in the office really enjoyed and got off on sexually once I had arrived. Walking home I did end up going past a layby featuring two cars with solitary male occupants who both stared at me lustily as I went past, which normally I would enjoy but on this occasion made me feel deeply unsettled and barely even aroused at all. It occurred to me that unless I had inadvertently strolled onto the set of a Crimewatch reconstruction there was a fair to middling chance that I was going to get bummed and/or murdered six ways from Tuesday by one or both of these potential lunatics, but as it turned out my anus and everything else dear to me remained intact and I got home super fast, not least because I was convinced that some weirdy taxi driver was seconds away from throwing me in his boot and force-feeding me his nut sack. 

In short, walking is incredible and people should do it more. I’m fairly certain that I will have lost the use of my legs/buttocks by tomorrow but regardless it was worth the endorphin rush occasioned by an increase in heart rate, the sweet shot of adrenalin and the palpable sense that I was about to lose my anal virginity. I’ve been saving the last one for the right person and frankly unless one of those weirdy taxi drivers happened to Andre Villas-Boas I would have been extremely disappointed to have my bum cherry popped by someone who listened to Real Radio for fun and smelt of Lynx Africa. 

In the words of confederate bard Phil Anselmo: “Walk”. 

A bientot.

The Black Metal Dialogues

mrdavehill:

Eight years ago, I formed an imaginary band called Witch Taint, the greatest black metal band of all-time.  Most people couldn’t handle it.  Read all about it here.  It pretty much has everything.

Dark regards,

Dave

Going underground

Hello there. How are you doing? Oh pull yourself together. I’m afraid I’ve got to be quick because I’ve got practice and if I’m late one more time Martyn is going to make me play ‘bum darts’ again and I’m pretty sure this time I’m going to end up being the board. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you all about my experience on the incredible transport system known as the London Underground or ‘The Tube’ as those in the know (like me) call it, a seriously amazing way to travel which has recently been taking the capital by storm. People can not get enough of it, and I can see why. As I’m sure you can imagine, anything which involves pressing yourself up against random strangers whilst perspiring heavily was something I wanted in on and I’m fairly certain that most of my fellow passengers were both amazed at how nonchalantly I was dealing with the whole process as well as pretty much mentally undressing me with their eyes at the same time. As far as I can tell when using this incredible and futuristic form of transportation you have to show everybody that you mean business (something that I am totally comfortable with) and it was clear from the outset that even though I have a kind face and smell pretty amazing people knew that I wouldn’t stand for any bullshit. Not this time - what happened in that municipal toilet was weird and absolutely not worth the Snickers bar or the dry cleaning bill afterwards. In short, I totally dominated the whole situation and despite a couple of touch and go moments successfully managed not to piss my pants even when we went into the tunnel. In your face, Mum.

Basically, it was pretty incredible and I’m looking forward to the next time I can show London that I am totally capable of travelling all by myself with only the slight assistance of a couple of friends, some kindly strangers and the roundly excellent British Transport Police.

Anyway, I’ve got to go. Martyn’s on the oche and he seems angry. Toodlepip.

Things that are bullshit

Hi everybody it’s me again, back with another instalment of what people are already calling ‘a blog by Stuart Dobbins’. I can only assume that fame, fortune and the front cover of Women’s Health magazine are within touching distance of my slender piano-playing fingers as we speak. Anyway, given that yesterday I waxed lyrically and erotically about things that I endorse (ie. that I think are good) I thought that today I would share my thoughts on things that I consider to be bullshit (ie. that I think are bullshit). Listen up charlatans because I am about to hand you something which you will soon discover to be your ass, but which I have kicked the fuck out of before giving back to you so you won’t even realise what I’ve done until much later, by which time it will be tough shit because your ass will be totally fucked and no use to you at all whatsoever. Here goes:

96 hour anti-perspirants.

These are bullshit, hence them being in this list. I saw one of these on the shelf of popular adult superstore Morrisons the other day and I thought I would totally get stuck in - a guy like me who lives such an incredible on-the-go lifestyle due to frequently being up to his testicles in sexy situations NEEDS a deodorant which he can apply once every four days but which will keep him smelling amazing all throughout his unbelievably sensual and drunken encounters with all types of women and some men. Applying my 96 hour antiperspirant I allowed myself a small degree of satisfaction in thinking of all the tools putting deodorant on every 24, 48 or even 72 hours and laughed out loud like someone who was putting deodorant on but who had maybe been drinking a bit before breakfast. However I was laughing on the other side of my face when I discovered that after a mere few hours of private browsing on the internet my body odour was starting to become noticeably more vinegar-y in its constitution, whilst my armpits had taken on the consistency of Pritt-Stick. Undeterred, I pressed on with the enthusiasm of a man who does not let bad times or smells get in the way of pushing the boundaries of human endurance - however I was alarmed to discover that as the days went on I was drawing both increasingly concerned looks from work colleagues as well as a large proportion of the local canine population. Essentially it was not long before I was having to reapply another round of antiperspirant, ashamed of my earlier smugness and suitably chastened by the voices in my head that now just will not shut up. In short, I am deeming 96-hour antiperspirant to be total and utter bullshit, not least because it made me smell like it.

Adverts for the news.

I like a good advert as much as the next man - who could forget big smiley Howard on his surfboard, those adorable little meerkats or even that one where Dannii Minogue has (what I imagine to be) a pre-lezzing up pillow fight with a load of women half her age? However I have noticed an alarming trend recently whereby TV channels have taken to advertising their own news coverage, without even the fucking decency to include semi-nudity, talking animals or a member of their backroom staff riding a CGI-d skateboard on a beach or something. Furthermore, sometimes these adverts inexplicably appear on the news channels themselves, thus negating any benefit that they might have in drawing in viewers from other stations like Sky Arts, BBC Four or XXXFirst Timers. Frankly these adverts make me so angry it’s all I can do not to put my penis in a tub of Lidl extra value vanilla ice-cream in a vain attempt to calm down and/or attain an erection. God damn - it’s bullshit. 

So there you have it. I’ve run out of ideas now and anyway my download of ‘Rocco’s Anal Anarchy’ has just finished. I’m off to pull the curtains and get stuck into a slightly melted and hairy tub of Lidl extra value vanilla ice-cream. Until next time. 

Toodlepip.

Things that I endorse

Hello there. Me again - you know, from the internet. As a little insight into the mental workings of a man who is either a genius or having the sexiest mental breakdown of all time, I thought I would avail you of some things that I officially endorse.

Dio - Sacred Heart

This is the third album by Dio and I have been listening the holy fuck out of it this week. If you are a fan of the first two albums you will probably be disappointed as Ronnie and Co use this record to explore some of their world music influences along with a lot of reggae-tinged ballads and ambient soundscapes. Not really! I’m basically just fucking with you as only I can - hard and deep. And in the ass. Anyway, this is a really great record which seems to have been crafted with the sole intention of punching everybody, even girls, in the balls, or whatever it is that girls have, and making no apology for it whatsoever. There is even a song where I swear Ronnie sings the words ‘YouTube’, which goes to show what a visionary the guy was given that the album came out in 1985 and at that point we were still years from the heady thrill of even Deluxe Paint, let alone videos of kittens riding skateboards. The only small downside of the album is the amazing song ‘King of Rock n Roll’ does that whole ‘pretending to be recorded live’ thing where they put crowd noises over the top of it, but which mysteriously fade out when the singing comes in. Normally I hate this technique more than Nazism or Coldplay but in this instance I will let the boys off the hook because the song is awesome and frankly if Ronnie decides to do something I am leaving my prejudices at the door marked ‘willing to give this a chance’. In short, it’s freaking awesome.

Mansfield Park by Jane Austen

If like me you are a fan of reading about people from 200 years ago walking around a garden for 54 pages at a time then you are really missing out if you haven’t got yourself stuck into Jane Austen and her oeuvre of fiction. I am currently reading ‘Mansfield Park’, a novel which basically consists of a lot of people who talk in very long sentences walking around the English countryside and trying not to give off the vibe that they totally want to bone the fuck out of each other. I haven’t got to the end but I’m pretty sure it’s going to end in one big spunk bath for Julia, Maria and the rather tellingly-titled Fanny. I could wax lyrical about the masterful syntactical construction, the delicate plotting and the tacit symbolic meanings of locations within the novel, but really all you need to know is that behind those big old oak doors a lot of people from the olden days are getting their legs blown clean off. At least, that’s what I’m getting from the novel - you may see something different and possibly even sexier (although I doubt it).

Anyway, that’s all I can think of for the time being. In short - if having your genitals kicked right into your body cavity is your thing then you are missing out by not getting involved with (the greatest metal singer of all time) Ronnie James Dio and (sexed-up tuberculosis sufferer) Jane Austen. Seriously, take my advice - I know these things. I have powers. Really.

Toodlepip.

Stigmata

As it’s Sunday, and because I am a man who likes to grab life, along with a lot of other things, with both hands, I got up early this morning and went for a country ramble around my local environs. This physique doesn’t happen by accident, you know. Anyway, as I was power-wandering over hills and vales and generally espying the fuck out of a load of golden daffodils I noticed that I was actually wearing the wrong shoes for the task in hand. By this time it was too late to turn back as I was already halfway round my route, so I ploughed on with the romping that was already causing my extremities to redden and burn not unpleasantly and got back to my house in a new record time (I imagine). However the wrong shoes weren’t finished with me yet, as upon attempting to remove my sock it became apparent that said shoes had proved a cruel mistress and rubbed the holy bejeeberz out of the backs of my ankles, leaving what can only be described, without any hyperbole whatsoever, as stigmata on my virgin flesh. Now, I’ve seen the incredible film Stigmata with Patricia Arquette and despite her totally taking her top off for a bit the whole stigmata thing seemed to be a real ball-ache for all concerned, and certainly something that would drag down a guy like me who lives and breathes the metrosexual lifestyle. In short, I was concerned.

This concern was further increased when I decided to take a shower, whereupon hot water apparently transformed itself automatically into hydrochloric acid as soon as it came into contact with my ‘wound of Christ’ (as I have now started calling it). However you will be pleased to hear that I totally sucked it up like a real man and only cried for maybe fifteen to twenty minutes, a fact which everybody I have told, including my mum, the Bangladeshi family that run the newsagents and some guy pushing his daughter on a swing have all agreed is amazing and actually quite tough when you think about it. 

Anyway, I just thought I’d share that with you. So far no other stigmata have come to light on my person but you’ll be the first to find out if they do. On a sliding scale of ‘bullshit that I really don’t need right now’, ‘having stigmata’ is pretty much right up at the top, but I guess like Patricia Arquette and Jesus I will just have to learn to live with it. Also, if this blog starts getting written in a language nobody has spoken for two thousand years could you let me know? I imagine I will have enough on my hands trying to stop that freeloader Gabriel Byrne getting into my house.

Toodlepip. Amen.