J is for Jowls

There comes a time in life when you look in the mirror and begin to see fine lines and wrinkles. This is pretty bad news in a society focussed on youth and beauty. However, that day it is not so bad as the one when you notice for the first time that your neck and chin appear somewhat...saggy.

In an attempt to disguise the sagging chin flesh you put on a roll-neck jumper, enormous dangly earrings and wrap a scarf decorously around your neck.

You plaster yourself with makeup.

You jut out your jaw.

You take off your glasses.

But whatever you do the sagging chin flesh is still there!

In despair, you crack open a bottle of red (even though it's only 10 am) slurp down a big glass and finally admit to yourself that you have a jowl.

Thereafter, whenever you look in the mirror you see this:

I is for Ice Cream and Innuendo

I am cheating tonight as I running out of time to meet the deadline. So I am posting an extract from my novel The Changing Room which features my heroine Sandy's initiation into The Beaver Club sex-chat service. The extract features ice cream in a rather saucy manner. Enjoy!

 “It just so happens I do have some friends here, Professor.” Deidre pulls an amused face. “But I’m not sure if you can handle us all at the same time…you think you can? You are a very naughty, naughty boy, Professor. I think I shall have to discipline you soon.”

            There’s a long pause whilst Deidre listens to the Professor talk. Unfortunately or fortunately (I’m not sure which), none of us can hear but as Deidre is contorting her face into all sorts of shocked, confused and revolted expressions, we all have a very good idea what the Professor is saying.

            “Oh my, you are one hot Professor!” says Deidre. “You are so hot, I think I’m going to cool you down with some ice cream. In fact, I’m going to smear it all over you, and my girlfriends and I are going to lick it all off. We are going to lick it off…everywhere!”

            Deidre listens again and pulls her face into such a horrific expression she looks like she’s seen the ghost of Liberace. After a brief pause, she nods to indicate that the Professor is ready and waiting.

            “Okay, baby,” says Deidre in a smooth, sensual voice. “I’m going to run my tongue luxuriously up your legs, licking off the rich vanilla ice cream which melts on my tongue and runs smoothly down my throat like a river of semen…”

            I convulse with silent laughter. Deidre whips off her Bluetooth and passes it to Mrs M, takes a big slurp of her wine and gives me one of her extra-special winning grins.

            “I’m nibbling your pert round arse like I would nibble a crumbly chocolate flake….” says Mrs M.

            I slide off the sofa onto the floor, clutching my stomach as Mrs M elaborates what she is doing with a chocolate flake. I’m hoping I don’t wet myself like I did at the school play but, unfortunately, there is absolutely nothing I can do about it; I cannot stop laughing.

            “I’m wrapping my legs round you as I suck the raspberry jam off your nipples,” says Tina.

            Deidre, now sitting on the sofa, lifts her legs in the air and waves them around.

            “Stop it, stop it,” I groan. “I’m going to die!”

            “Oh, honey, you turn me on so much,” says Josie. “I think I’m going to sit on your face and dribble some more ice cream over you.”

            “Oh God, I’m literally dying,” I whisper as I lie, aching with laughter, on Deidre’s shag pile carpet.

            “Not yet, you don’t,” says Morna with a grin.

            “Are your almonds tasty, Professor?” says Kate. “I do so love the sweet crunchy texture of nuts and grinding them between my teeth. But you should hear what my sister likes to do…”

            Kate yanks off the Bluetooth, kneels down and slips it over my head, despite the fact that I’m hardly capable of breathing, let alone talking. I hear heavy puffing and some weird groaning I’d rather not know about. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see Deidre making furious gestures to me to hurry up and say something.

            “Hello,” I whisper, clearing my throat.

            “You must be Virginia,” says a croaky old voice that sounds like the man on the other end genuinely is an ancient professor from the spires of Oxford.

            “Yes,” I whisper.

            “Madame la Pompadour said you’d be shy at first. You sound so sweet and innocent. But you can be bold with me, Miss Virginia. Now…what would you like to do to me?”

            I pause and see Deidre still gesturing furiously and the other ladies all grinning at my discomfort. I close my eyes and attempt to block everything out.

            “Why, Professor,” I say, trying to sound my sexiest. “There’s nothing left for me to do but cover your lollipop with sprinkles and slowly lick each one up with the tip of my tongue, suck it between my lips and gently roll it around in my mouth until there’s an explosion of colour fizzing on my tongue.”

            “Oh, Virginia!” cries the Professor. “You are delightful!”

I give the thumbs up and Deidre, Mrs M, Tina, Josie, Morna and Kate raise their glasses and cheer me.

My initiation is over; I am part of The Beaver Club.

H is for Human Rights

I lost my sight
Because I had no rights

I lost my soul
In a pitiful hole

I lost my heart
Because I played no part

I lost my mind
In all the unkind

If I could breathe
I would not grieve

If I could sing
It would be Spring

If I could shout
I would have no doubt

And if I was free
I could be me.

 by Jane

G is for G-Spot

So tonight my subject is the G-spot which, in my opinion, which would be more aptly named the Z-spot because I've heard on the Turley grapevine that many women are prone to falling asleep or dying from boredom whilst their man is searching for it. (Especially if he's also looking at the football results - see my F for foreplay post.)

Now I am not suggesting that all males are cack-handed at foreplay and finding the G-spot. On the contrary, I am sure there's at least half a dozen men out there who know what they're doing. And if any of you ladies know where they are please let the rest of us know and then we can all form an orderly queue.

To be fair to the male species, I admit it is well known that the G-spot is pretty elusive. Some say it doesn't even exist. All I can say is that after having given birth to three strapping sons there's more chance of me winning the lottery or losing half my body weight in a week than there is of finding my G-spot. My vagina is like a black hole. There's probably a couple of lost spaceships up there. In fact, my gynecologist once sent a search party up there to look for my cervix. Sadly, even though they were armed with flashlights and a week's rations they didn't find their way back for over a month.

You know, recently I've been wondering how I'm going to support myself in old age as writing books doesn't pay and I've been a stay-at-home for years so have zero pension. I've been trying to think creatively about how I can give my income a boost.

So far, all I've managed to come up with is hiring out my vagina as a backdrop for the next Star Wars movie.

I reckon if George Lucas filmed some really epic space battles in my vagina I could patent it and then make a pitch for the Star Trek movies as well. I could even set up my own stage production company. I'd probably call it Black Hole Productions.

Anyway, it's time for me to hit the sack so to end today's post on a postive note my advice is:

If you're looking for your G-spot you might as well give up and eat a packet of chocolate chip cookies instead. It will be a lot more satisfying and you can put on your headphones whilst you're eating them and block out the sound of your partner switching channels on the TV.

"One more take and I think we've got it!

F is for Foreplay

This is going to be a very short post.

(As befitting the average amount of foreplay a typical woman receives.)

So... foreplay. It's a bit of a sensitive subject. But I'm not one to shy away from sensitive subjects so I've done some research on it. (About the average length of a foreplay session so I leave you to come to your own conclusions on my diligence.)  And I have come to the following conclusion:

1. Women don't get enough of it.

That's it.

Oh yes... and sometimes it is a bit messy.

So my top five tips for men to improve their lovelife and satisfy their women are:

1. When a woman says "Don't stop doing that" it should not be wrongly interpreted that she means you should stop and look-up the football scores.

2.When a woman passionately whispers "Oh George you're so gorgeous" and your name is not George don't be bitter, be grateful. Your partner's fantasy means you'll be able to get back to Match of the Day before half-time is over.

3. Personal hygiene in their partner is very important to a woman. Going to bed wearing the same underwear you've worn all day (with the skid marks on) is not going to turn her on.

4. Never trim your nasal hair in view of your woman and never, ever trim your nasal hair in bed.

5. Never take your phone to bed with you and never answer a call from your boss while your woman is feeling horny because she will never, ever forget you choose your boss over her.

"It's my boss. He want to know the football scores."

Do you have any tips to improve foreplay? Leave them in the comments!

E is for Extended Engineering Works

Today it is time to talk about a subject that will particularly resonate with readers in the UK where the words "Extended Engineering Works" or a signpost that reads "Delays expected until August 2018" can instantly induce suicidal thoughts, mass hysteria or the kind of quiet British resignation which makes foreign espionage an attractive proposition.

You see, whether you travel by rail or by car, getting around the UK requires the sort of endurance and initiative that in other countries qualify you for the armed forces. However, in the UK the average Brit knows that to travel into London by train is a test of endurance like no other. In Germany they are proud to claim they their trains run on time: in the UK we are proud if we make it into work without having a seizure. Only in the UK do the words "leaves on the track," "overhead power cable failure" and "flooded tracks" induce such doom and gloom.

But, of course, worse than any leaves, snow or rain on the tracks are "Extended Engineering Works". This statement invariably means somewhere on the rail network there is a bit of track missing and nobody knows where so the management have sent a party of ten men clad in fluorescent jackets equipped with a forked stick out on a walking party in an attempt to locate it. In the meantime, while the workman try to detect the missing track passengers on their morning commute to London can expect to be:

A) Rerouted via Aberdeen

B) Held up at signals at Watford Junction for three hours on a train with no buffet and where a small stream of urine runs from the beneath the toilet door and pools just in the spot where you are forced to stand because the train has only four carriages, it is peak commuting hours and there are no seats.

C) Rerouted via Aberdeen and held up at Watford Junction for three hours and forced to overhear the conversation of German tourists bragging about German efficiency and how their trains always run on time for the entire *ucking journey.

Now remember you heard the following gossip here first - I have heard on the Turley grapevine that the next Bear Grylls TV show will be called Mission Survival: The Challenge of Network Rail. Apparently, the first episode will be where Bear attempts to make it into London from Lands End in less than 24 hours with no food or drink whilst wearing a pinstripe suit and equipped with only a laptop with a dead battery and a phone without a 4G connection. He will also be hampered by the fact that he will be accompanied by his mother-in-law.

Unfortunately, it is not just only our rail system that is flawed in the UK but also the roadwork. I do a lot of travelling and I know that a typical journey follows this pattern:

You are speeding down the motorway at 90 70mph on a glorious morning for driving under the false impression you will get to your appointment on time when all of a sudden the traffic begins to slow. Signs that were not there the previous day have appeared overnight: "Expect Delays until August 2018", "Average 40mph Speed Check" (*uck) and eventually signs directing all the motorway traffic into one lane. The traffic slowly grinds to an agonising 5mph and rows upon rows upon rows of orange cones are laid over the motorway like onlookers at a funeral procession. The traffic edges slowly forward for another thirty minutes and all the time there is not a single workman, digger or even a solitary shovel to be seen. The only break from monotony and frustration is observing the Sunday drivers having a picnic on the hard shoulder, the lorry driver taking a leak in an upturned cone and other commuters less patient than you screaming into their phones and tearing their hair out.

Then, suddenly, with no forewarning, the cones end, the speed restriction stops and the cars ahead of you race off into the distance. Then you too put your foot down and race off whilst uttering every obscenity under the sun because all the time you were queuing you have not seen any evidence of maintenance on the roads; not a single workman, not a single digger or even a solitary shovel....

Now, as usual, I have applied my analytical skills to the whereabouts of the missing motorway maintenance men and I've come to this conclusion:

They have been loaned to Network Rail and are out looking for the missing train track alongside the Network Rail workers. No doubt, the Transport minister thinks if they use double the quantity of forked sticks they will discover the missing track a lot quicker.

Personally, I don't believe a word the Transport minister says on any issue. I reckon he's actually a German agent.

"Not more bloody cones!"

D is for Deities, Demigods and Dunces

*WARNING*. THIS POST CONTAINS SLEAZY AND CRASS POETRY IF YOU ARE A FAN OF JOHN DONNE LEAVE NOW AND NEVER COME BACK.

So today I am going to be devoting my D post to two extremes of beings: The Deity or Demigod and The Dunce.

Now I am not going to pretend I am learned and studied the classics and know all about Greek and Roman mythology because I don't.  And I am way too lazy to bother trying to look them up at 11 pm on a Tuesday evening with less than hour before I miss the A to Z deadline. So I'd thought I'd talk about deities and demigods in modern terms. So, after having thought for about a minute long and hard about how I might define deities and demigods in terms of a modern day being or likeness, I came up with this example.

George Clooney.

Who basically is what we describe as "lush" in the UK with the added bonus that he can do no wrong. (Except get married.)

Now as befitting Gorgeous George's godlike status I have written him an ode:

Oh George how lovely art thou eyes
Even tastier than French fries
You ass is pretty good too
On it I could munch and chew
Or maybe lick off some fondue
So call me if you want a saucy English chick
Who likes a red hot... guy.

Pretty poetical stuff eh? Well maybe not. But what you do you expect at 11pm?

Blimey, I think I'm on a creative roll now. That's what the pressure of this A to Z thing does to me. It sets the old brain cells firing. I think I shall write an ode to Chris Hemsworth now.

Oh Chris how muscular your biceps are
Even tastier than a candy bar
Your butt is pretty pert too
On it I could bite and nibble
Maybe even have a dribble
So write to me if you fancy a sweet English Rose
Who writes some awesome, fantastic poetry odes rhymes prose

So that's deities and demigods defined. Now onto dunces.

Well that's easy. Anyone who works at a British Telecommunications (BT) call centre!

And yes BT is my favourite pet hate. I've had years of emotional abuse from BT which has been compounded by the fact that they have recently installed fibre optics in our village but (and it's a very big but) it stops about four houses down from us. So I must suffer the agonizing pain of slow broadband for probably another 2 years or more because apparently they are not even going to considering installing it for my end of the street until 2017.

How unfair is that! Four doors down my friend's children get to play their games on super-fast connections and down here I can barely fire up my PC without a warning sign flashing up on my PC that says:

 "WARNING IMMINENT BT FAILURE. CLOSE DOWN YOUR PC NOW OR RISK STROKE AND HEART FAILURE."

So that's it for today. If you've got this far well done and there's still enough time to pick up a copy of my short story Fantasia (which is whole load better than the trash I write on this blog) for free on Kindle. The offer ends approx midnight PST on 5th April. (See sidebar for link)

See you tomorrow!