What does nineteen sixty nine mean to you?
The last dying tremor of the swinging sixties,
Woodstock and exotic moon landings,
Empty-headed teenagers and wasted hippies
Dancing in the fading glimmer of youth,
Their painted beads perished in the sun?

Or maybe you weren't even born then
And all you know is a tatty documentary film
About a media-created pop music fest,
And some footage of silver-shining Michelin men
Jumping about in lunar zero gravity,
(Which malicious rumour has it was faked -
Anything to distract the American public from
The inevitable national humiliation in Vietnam).

So let me remind you how it really, really was:
Swinging London was rocking like crazy,
Wow, it was so cool, the groovy discos served
Delicious lukewarm coca-cola after eleven p.m.,
And trendy Britain was a cute place to be gay
With homosexuality finally legalised
After a century of puritanical persecution,
Except that the law reform didn't apply in
Scotland or Northern Ireland or to the armed forces
And you had to be twenty-one and you could only do it
In private and if no third person was there.
And theatrical censorship was still in force
Which meant all naughty plays were blue-pencilled
By bureaucrats and narrow-minded prigs.

So let me remind you how it really, really was:
Religious riots in Belfast, Franco still in power in Spain,
And you could go there for a cheapo sunshine holiday
With watered down sangria in the shade of a bayonet;
The Berlin Wall an unchallenged affront to human decency,
Thanks to old man Kosygin in absolute power in the Kremlin,
His iron rule in force throughout Eastern Europe,
Poor Prague's defeat emphasised by occupying Soviet tanks.
And lovely Greece, birthplace of democracy, home to Zorba's dance
(Except that it was a criminal offence under the Colonels
To play any of Theodorakis' music because the most famous Greek
Was condemned as a ******* communist revolutionary *******).

So, let me remind you how it really, really was:
Nixon in the White House, half a million American troops
Fighting a losing battle for democracy in Vietnam
(More accurately against democracy, but the jury is still out on that),
And nearly as many US citizens on the march against the war.
Whilst the rest of the world looked on in indifference,
Since they had had enough common sense to stay out of it.
And when we think back to such a terrible, terrible year,
All the media seems to tell us is the insipid lie
That nineteen sixty-nine was a lovely summer of love.
It wasn't like that, it was boring and provincial and I was there.

Her suicide left a loneliness
only partly ameliorated by
a good *******
with her bereaved Mum
up both gaping holes.

DEDICATED TO THE FAT HIDEOUS BETTY, MY NEIGHBOUR

*Does anyone here know of a good mohel?
As I urgently need someone to circumcise
My neighbour's Yorkshire terrier, canine boil
Needing lancing, joybringing to my eyes.
A kindly mohel simply will not do;
He must lack scruple and human pity;
That hound’s not been bathed for a year or two
So th'event might turn out a bit ******.
Yorkshire terriers are of two classes:
The insistent yapping ones we all hate
And the ***** ones with hairy arses;
But both look good nailed to your garden gate.
And he needn't be a mohel either,
Merely someone with a willing cleaver.

The Marquis de Sade was dead keen on ******
And thought those who weren't deserved a lobotomy;
He ******* all his friends both from the back and the front
So on his gravestone they wrote, "Here lies a right ***** ******* ****".

I met this **** chick at the entrance to the cinema
and we agreed to sit in the back row
[after all I bought her ****** ticket
so the little **** knew what was expected]
and when the house lights went down
and the couple next door started
mauling each other's mouths seriously
she unzipped my pink satin trousers
and took out the first six inches
of my mighty ***** of generation
and gave it a spectacular *******
until I shot off into her dribbling cakehole
and then I could enjoy the film
without very much extraneous distraction
[apart from the antics of the couple next door
as they were in their eighties at least
judging from their heavy breathing
and from the time it took them to come,
just like a slow train juddering into
a suburban station on Christmas Eve].

I know of an alehouse on Skye
Whose toilets stink worse than a sty;
Where drunken old fools
With purple-veined tools
In pools of warm piddle-froth lie.

There was once a barmaid called Sue
Who went in to clean up the loo
The stench was so great
She met a dire fate
When she fainted and drowned in stale poo.

Old Sally had six pints of cider,
When she turned to the man slumped beside her
Who'd groped with his hand;
So she belched twice and
Pumped out the puke from inside her.

I ordered some cheese and a port
To try and banish the thought
Of people's reactions
To Sally's contractions;
Most betting was that she'd abort.

Don't be sad,
Don't be pathetic;
I can't bear to see a woman cry;
It makes me want to thump her one.
Don't mope about your lost love;
I never did and I'm none the worse for it.

Better to get your gladrags on;
Go down to the city centre;
Pick yourself a decent bar;
Waggle your sweet little *** at someone;
Drag him home (or go off to his pad,
but that's risky as it may stink of old socks)
And enjoy what you have before it withers,
And you become as dry as a prune on Boxing Day.
That's what I told my sister anyway;
And she's as happy as Larry now with a bun in the oven
Even though she's on the ******* dole
(mind you, she's uglier than a fairground mule
and the ******* baby is no raving beauty
what with his withered arm and Pistorian stumps).

Nobody loves a fairy when's he's fifty
Nobody likes a fairy, old and grey;
And no one loves a bumboy when he's sixty
Wanking in a toilet, fat and gay.

And when a fairy gets as old as seventy
He can't get rough trade any more
And if he finally makes it through to eighty
His dilated **** will be very sore.

I heard the world's loudest **** today
It echoed round the town enough to say
"I am a **** of great renown and fame,
I am a **** who's worthy of the name
Of  KING of FARTS!"  Unthinkingly I sniffed
And, let me tell you, I have never whiffed
Aught so potent, dank and dread and foul
Blasted out from heaving human bowel
As that king of farts I smelled today
And which took my ******* breath away.

Who was the pumper of that putrid beauty?
How many curries in the line of duty
Had he consumed?  It must have been a man -
No pong so strong ere blew from female can.
Can no one answer yet my urgent question:
And say who suffereth such dire indigestion?
O heavens! his torment must be something chronic.
Can no one subsidise a high colonic
Irrigation to prevent another
Noisier and more noisome than its younger brother?

The bar behind the theatre was nearly empty apart from a couple of gay boys.
Well, it was a gay bar, so no ******* surprise there.
I glanced at the fat one and decided, 'No thank you very much,'
as I have noticed fat people often smell unpleasantly,
maybe it's the sweat trapped between their ****-cheeks that does it.

But the other one was very cute and I decided I would have him.
In those days, it was regarded as 'de rigeur' to buy a lad a lager and lime
before dragging him home with you for some nookie,
so I coughed up for a half pint with charm and grace.
Sadly, he was no great shakes in the conversational stakes,
but was I after intellectual stimulation? No, I ******* wasn't.

Anyway, once I'd checked his passport to ensure he was over-age
(no one wants any ******* trouble from the bigoted morality squad)
I dragged him back to my elegant bachelor ****-pad
and stripped him off to investigate his lithe little body;
a nice smooth little **** and a reasonably clean ****.
What more can you want from a one night stand?

After a bit of a damp snog and a good old *****,
I lubed him up and gave his *** a right good poking.
He moaned a bit, but then who wouldn't moan,
with seven and a half inches of thick gristle shoved
all the way up their sphincter? I know I would.

After I had filled his rear end with love juice a couple of times,
I felt that kicking out was the name of the game.
Generously, I gave him a half-crown for his bus fare
as he said he was a bit short of cash, being unemployed.
It was the least I could do, as he had three miles to go home,
and it was raining cats and ******* dogs outside.

After he'd left, I checked out the bed sheets (as you would)
and was irritated to find a few skidmarks there,
or they may have been where I wiped my fingers
after having eaten a bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk.
A quick sniff confirmed my worst suspicions though.
'Ah well, true love always comes at a price', I reflected,
as I scraped the worst bits off with a nail file.

The old man stared at the mirror in disbelief
As he dabbed on a little of his favourite fragrance:
‘Le Male’ by Jean-Paul Gaultier.
Was that really him, that saggy-faced creature?
He plucked out an intruding grey hair,
An intruder in his masculine, black, bushy eyebrows;
He had hoped his boyish good looks were still there,
Although a little frayed, a little worn by time.

In his mind's eye he sees himself as rugged,
Slim yet quietly butch; manly, masculine,
Handsome, outwardly something of a ladies’ man;
Surely no one would guess he had certain desires
(Not that he thinks of himself as perverted).
What a pity no one told him not to sport a clone moustache.
Nor can he resist those sporty Harris Tweed jackets
And masculine lumberjack shirts, so straight.

Provincial England was a hard place to grow up
With condemnation pouring out of every mouth
For perverts and poofters and prancing pansies;
Best to suppress the thoughts crowding in
And be normal, just like everyone else.
Life in the armed forces was a challenge…
All those handsome young men in the showers…
Get thee behind me Satan, to coin an unfortunate phrase.

So he had to force himself to go chasing girls,
But he always showed respect for the ladies;
What a gentleman he had always been in that respect.
Maybe a failed marriage or two
Should have told him the cold hard truth,
But the need to conform to the norms of society
Kept his real desires at bay,
Most of the time, anyway.

How he had longed in his heart of hearts
To be someone, a poet perhaps, a creative artist,
But it was not to be, and eventually he was reduced
To trolling the world wide web under pathetic pseudonyms.
How sad it was he had never lived up
To his poor old Daddy’s dreams,
And how shocked his Mummy would be now
To see her pensioner son staring at the mirror
With only a half-empty tube of KY Jelly for company every night.

When taking your pet to the vet
There's one thing you mustn't forget:
If your vet's a queer,
Keep guard on your rear
(Or a ****-plug would be a good bet).

It was on Hallowe'en when we said we'd meet;
as we thought it might be romantically spooky;
and I trotted gaily along the pathway
through the dimly-lit park
where the predator ******* maniacs roamed
hoping for a bit of backdoor action
and my excited little heart went
"YI YI YI YI YI YAAAAARRRGGGHHH!"
with eager anticipation
of a hot new nymphomaniac date.

We had been a-texting with
ever-increasing frankness
for several weeks and I was beginning
to get tired of wiping the keyboard clean
after each bout of frenzied
manual self-stimulation
which she had boldly urged me to
and the built-in camera was out of order
because of the damp ***** build-up.

I found the pictures she sent me
stimulating to say the very least
especially the one with the melon
peeping out from between her legs
and I found her blood-red eyes
rather exciting really
once I got used to them;
and I was quite looking forward
to the love bites she promised me
which was why I had washed my neck
with particular attention to the blackheads.

Promptly at the stroke of midnight
my putative mistress arrived
with a ******* great clap of thunder
and to say I was surprised by her sulphurous breath
would be putting it mildly
and the fifty-five inch waist
was a bit of a disappointment,
and I honestly and truly think
she might have mentioned
the suppurating scabs
and oozing boils
or at least hinted at them.

As I fought the ravening hell-***** off
with the hatchet I had wisely brought
in my briefcase as a safety precaution
once more I rued my innocence:
how many times have I been let down
after such high hopes from internet dating
and yet - trusting soul that I am -
I had again let my heart go astray.

Once it was all over
and I gazed down at her hideous
and mutilated corpse bleeding
and twitching on the ****** bitumen,
I lifted up her skirt
just to check the melon photo
hadn't been a fake;
and although there was no large
piece of fruit in situ at the time
I could see it had always
been a very real possibility.

Oh tell me where has England's glory gone,
Lost golden days of beef and lukewarm beer?
Now it's polenta in a gastro-pub,
Chilean Chardonnay, Tequila Slammers.

Her Empire proudly pink on schoolroom maps;
India, Afric, source of plundered loot galore.
All gone, all gone, black faces back in charge
And black drug pushers stalk old London's streets.

Fat huntsmen dressed in pink, all banished now,
Their yelping foxhounds ripping prey apart,
Celebrating sick English country ways
Before returning to their mortgaged homes.

City yobbos yelling down their mobiles,
Fatcats slurping up their creamy profits;
All the public cares about is football
And the *** lives of the media's darlings.

So where has England's honour gone today?
Up the American military ****,
Our government showing its smug disdain
For what decent people care and think.

We've sold out to baseball caps and burgers,
And imported TV shows for the mentally *******,
A visitor attraction for obese rich yanks to drawl
"We're real glad we saved these Limey's ***** in two wars".

I just got a letter from my old Uncle Bert
and I'd like to share its tragic contents
with you here today;
but I'll edit out the ***** bits
just in case you are shocked
that an old man could still
have thoughts along those lines
or so as you don't throw up on your cornflakes
when you read them over breakfast.

"Dear Edna (he wrote to me)
It's not all that bad in the twilight nursing home
if you can bear the stale smells and moanings
of the other ****** inhabitants
and their bad breath fumes
plus the mashed food which all is pulped up
into something not unadjacent to catfood
for the sake of the toothless ones
who **** it up via a plastic tube
provided for that purpose.

"At least I take a bath once a fortnight
even though I don't like sharing it
with that Pakistani fellow Mr Ali
who always reeks of curry
and lets off stinky air from his back end
in our bath causing brownish bubbles
with a touch of follow-through vengeance.

"That reminds me of what happened
only last week when the ministry
sent some ****** health inspector round
who might have been a homosexualist
from his mincing walk I thought
and he came into our ward
you could see his beaky nose wrinkle
in distaste which was tactless we thought.

"He asked what the toiletty smell was
not knowing it's what we have to put up with day in day out
(and I know say you can't really afford
to pay extra for a clean private room for me
and not many of the others families bother either
its not as though they're the ones who suffer is it,
so let me suffer here after all I'm only your uncle
and you aren't in my last will and testament
as I never liked your mother much
fat stuck-up ***** from what I remember).

"The male nurse on duty that day
(he's the one we call Old *******
because he's so ******* bossy
and full of his ******* self)
asked all of us who had let the side down
and wet himself (or herself, it's a mixed ward
which I dont approve of as I don't want
to see anything disgusting anymore).

"Well no one owned up so Old *******
went round sniffing at everyone's rears
until he came to Mrs Jones squatting in the corner
and the he said why the **** hadn't she owned up
that she had done one in her pants today
and Mrs Jones said it had happened yesterday
or it may even have been the day before that
she couldn't really remember.

"You know, Edna, I still love miss my dear Linda
I even wish she was here
in this hellhole of a place
waiting for death's release
and not mouldering in her grave
but at least she avoids the squidgy mashed up food
which goes in one end and out the other
barely stopping for a rest halfway down."

You know, I couldn't stop laughing
for a full five minutes after I read this
as I knew, just knew, the old *******
had cut me out of his will -
well, let him rot is what I say
and that ******* about objecting
to sharing a bath with Mr Ali:
Bert's problem has always been
that he's allergic to soap and water
how well I remember the miasma
following him around his old house
before we had the **** certified.

O but my quest for love
(or at least some hot ***** ***)
has been a hard road, harder than gravel,
but finally I was pretty
sure that Eros' arrow had scored
a ******* bullseye
as I re-read the fifteen page email
of concentrated vile **** and obscenity
from the fabulously gorgeous teenage triplets
who were enamoured of me
and my open crotch photos;
certainly the accompanying attachments
of filth and sisterly depravity boded well
for our meeting, a picnic in the park.

My wildest dreams were exceeded
as I saw them waiting in their half-**** beauty
and, after a few bottles of champagne
and a crate of oysters (their treat),
they carried me off, cackling like ***-mad hens,
to their waiting chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce
to take me to their promised penthouse pad
for a nuit d'amour never to be forgotten;
"Where are we going girls?" I enquired
and how I screamed when they answered Scunthorpe.

O beautiful for Donald Trump
Comb-over sent by God
His edicts will surely stump
The most ******* sod.
America! America!
Obese mother of the free
Let cops shoot some coloured folk
Sweet hypocrisy!

MESSAGE STARTS
Just a quick note to let you all know that Dad and I love you all really and the recent Nepali earthquakes were mistakes which happened whilst he was taking a **** after a couple of strong curries Mary Magdalen made.
MESSAGE ENDS

I know I am saved and
My salvation is assured, so:
"*******!" to all ***-SINNERS!
Even as the flames of hottest Hell
Roar in the depths
Thumping like an electric toilet
Urging defecation on sinners
The hot turds going round the bend
Beastly beyond thought
And pumping foulness
Beyond any thought of salvation
Like a great big huge boil of oozing pus
Eager and willing to perish in the flames of Hell
With a cry of Hallelujah! and a cha-cha-cha.

This is a terrifying tale as told by Ebeneezer Sweetlove, my late cousin*

I remember how I met Edwina all those years ago: and there was none of that "eyes connecting across a crowded room" crap. Well, not in a romantic sense - it was just pure lust. I suddenly realised this woman was staring at me with undisguised desire from the other side of a cocktail party at some boring conference at the five-star Grand Hotel. I was ***** as buggery as my latest girl friend had, just the previous week, committed suicide by jumping to a hideous death off scenic Beachy Head, so I returned the ****'s look with a lethally ****** stare of my own and then licked my lips as vulgarly as possible, indicating I was simply barking for a hot oral session, no holes barred.

The woman I was to know all too briefly as Edwina took the hint and came over and we talked as though we'd known each other all our lives; but even someone as suave as I was a little surprised when she groped me quite openly and shoved her tongue into my earhole, dribbling hotly down my cheek. And then she seemed to go all shy and little girl-like until I sophisticatedly suggested we go out for dinner and then back to my penthouse suite for a night of mind-blowing *******. I have to say I was embarrassed when the head waiter in the little bistro I selected complained when she took off her knickers and gave them to me for a refreshing sniff.

The *** was amazing - Edwina was like a beast on heat, screaming like a banshee while we ****** each other's brains out. Yet, in between *******, she was as gentle and charming as a little ***** cat. Six times I gave her my hot ***** that night: once in her mouth, then four times in the usual place, finishing off with one up her rear end. I was more or less totally drained of my love juices and in need of a good long kip before lunch.

But, tragedy struck: well before the dawn's early, she woke me and whispered she had to go as she had to get home before her husband got back after his night shift from down the sewers - he was apparently in charge of the entire East Sussex sewage system and liked to have an hour long shower every morning to get the stench of ***** off him.

I begged her to stay, saying I would happily pay for a divorce so I could have her with me for always. I even offered to have a contract put out on her sewer rat of a hubby, mentioning that my brother-in-law, Kosmo, was big in the Albanian mafia and owed me a favour. But she said no, I could ******* with my pleas. As dawn grew nearer I could see her becoming ever more frantic to leave and it was only then I realised the truth, having at last deciphered the real meaning of her blood-stained and scabby third ****** and the scarlet 666 tattoo on her luscious **** cheek.

Yes, Edwina was a ***-demon from deepest Hell and thus I was left with only one course of action. Ever so reluctantly, I bravely reached for the sacred wooden stake and mallet that I had carried round in my Dolce & Gabbana crocodile suitcase for so many years just in case of such an eventuality. Sadly I drove the stake into her beautiful ***** with a mighty blow and, instead of the blood which might have been reasonably expected, only a stream of warm **** poured out. Before my very eyes, her corpse disintegrated into a pile of odorous dust. Truly was Edwina a daughter of darkness.

As you may imagine, I had to give the chambermaid quite a hefty gratuity in order to get her to cleanse my room and to bin the evidence, but so grateful was she for the honorarium that she agreed to share my bed the very next night, knowing she would be likely to receive an immense tip of quite another category.

Another "randyhornbag" poem for all avid fans of *******.*

rip off my dripping *******
and part my waiting ****-cheeks
sniff my fresh-scrubbed ****
then rim me ******* senseless

taste the sweet-sour tang
of my recent defecation
force your ***** mouth-*****
past my eager sphincter

seeking to engulf me
in my ****** ***-lust
and now for our delectation
shove your huge **** up me

and fill me with your hot *****
or fist me till I scream
my ******* brains out and
then **** myself in terror

Adolf und Eva
Got married one lovely day
But then they blew it

I can't ******* believe it
it's enough to make you want
to blow your own ******* head off
it really ******* is.

Crueller than cruel are the women
who make my life a living hell
lurking like Lovecraftian monsters
in internet chatrooms and forums
waiting to break my poor purple *****
on internet site after internet site
hiding their ugliness
under a ******* bushel.

I must be a dumb *******
but I really thought yes maybe
this time yes maybe just maybe
finally after more ****-ups
than a cut-price ***** has per year
and I one more time fell for their lies
and another date went wrong
and my poor bleeding heart
is broken like a duck's beak
hit by a twin-bore shotgun cannonade.

It was a warm summer's evening
with a humid atmosphere guaranteed
to make my nuts sweat freely
and we had agreed to meet
at a quiet spot in the city park
down by the old public lav
where the **** frolic after midnight
leaving the place littered
with filled ribbed condoms
after indiscrimate **** love sessions.

I eagerly re-read the print-out
from the new internet site
(www.fuckabroadforfree.com)
where kindly ******* fate had brought us
together like lost souls in a hurricane
seeking solace in hot ***** *******
and I felt sure your byline
'I love banging ugly strangers'
coupled with the open-crotch photos
could only lead to good times for all.

I hoped you would be a looker
even though the snapshots
you had boldly posted tended
to concentrate on the other end
where your twin holes
were in evidence big-time
so my readers can imagine
my intense ******* disppointment
when I finally saw you
with your tiny bald pointed head
peeping hopefully out
of the ****** rags you were wearing.

I think I was probably justified
in using the claw hammer
I had wisely brought with me
just in case and I must say
in my own ******* defence
love isn’t just a matter of aesthetics
and maybe I'm no raving Adonis myself
but you really have to draw the line
somewhere and you were on the other side
by a very long chalk
so very sadly and reluctantly
I gave into anger and let you have it
and please believe me when I say
that the sound of your death scream
will probably not keep me awake at night
as I drown my sorrows
in solitary *** and single malt whisky.
*******, brave new world!

My uncle is in a twilight home
for the seriously demented
and he'll never be coming back
from the place he's in
even if he could find the ******* way.

"Dear Edna" (my uncle wrote) "I am feeling low today
mainly because of the diarrheoa
I have had for the past week
although how you could get the runs
from eating pre-mashed milk pudding
is a ******* mystery to yours truly
I blame the African chef
I don't think he washes his hands
after he drops a log or two.

"It has been so long since your Auntie Linda passed
over to what may be a better place
than here because it could hardly be
worse what with the bedbugs
and the Asian nurse who keeps making me
use a bedpan in public as a punishment
for wetting the bed.

"To be frank with you though,
sometimes I can't remember
what I did yesterday or tomorrow either
but on other days everything is clear
and I think there is a Chinaman hiding
in my bedside cabinet and I am worried he might be
some sort of homosexualist after my *******
especially after my weekly bath
when it's relatively fresh.

"And, my dear niece (if that's who you are
I am not two hundred percent sure at the moment),
I don't think I got my breakfast today again
what a ****** surprise but at least
I won't have the runs again
it's because the Filipino nurses are eating it
my breakfast I mean not the other stuff.

"Your auntie my dear late wife was a truly gentle soul
and I am sure she is the only woman I have ever truly loved
the others were just a bit of spare how's-your-father
even though she could be very trying at times
and I remember once she bit someone
from the social security services
when they tried to help her up
off the kitchen floor after one of her attacks
she thought he was trying to cop a quick feel-up
below the waistline on the sly."

There's a rather nasty splodge on the paper
at this juncture, it looks like Uncle Bert
coughed up a lump of something
or other semi-terminal.

*"I've been thinking it over
about the nurse who stole my breakfast
and I might be mistaken.
I think it's quite possible she could be Romanian
now that we are in the European Union
there's a lot of funny people about
and they're taking over everything
you can't get Wagon Wheels in the tuckshop any more
only some beetroot flavoured biscuits.

"I am very worried one fine day I shall wake up
and not remember all the happy times
about my long years with my dear late wife
whose name eludes me for the moment
but I am still worried about the carpet slipper
and breakfast thieves round here.

"I fancied a nice piece of boiled salmon for lunch today
but it will be fish fingers once more this Friday
not that there's any catholics in here
and the staff are muslims in any case
and don't these people know fishes
don't have fingers, but flippers and fins
not that I'd eat a fin but that's another
country in the European Union I think
or it might be Frinton-on- Sea
where I think I once got a bit
of outdoor legover action.

"I wouldn't mind dying but I am scared to do it just yet
because I think I have lost my faith in baby Jesus
in fact I can't remember who she is even
and I hope my Linda (I remembered her name now)
will have gone to heaven in spite of biting
that health worker when he goosed her
the thought of going to heaven and she's not there
would be ******* dreadful
as I fancy a bit of the other.

"I think I can hear someone in the next ward
singing obscene songs in a wavering voice
with a la-la-la for the forgotten words
but remembering all the good bits
the bits they miss out of the Daily Mail.

"Where in God's name is my lunch
and who has got my slippers
how many times must I ask
and where is my bedpan when I need it?
Can you bring me one, Edna,
it would be nice to have a bedpan
all to myself as I hate sharing one
with Mr Ali as his son keeps sending him
cold takeaway curries which means
his motions are very strong indeed
Love from your uncle Bert.
PS I will put you back in my will
if you come up with that bedpan."

When I think of that matchless night
with your hideous face on the pillow
your disgusting body spread eagled on my bed
unwashed and rancid like stale fish stew
I recall nothing but putrid filth
and how the memory lingers on
of your staggering halitosis flavours
filthy foulness oozing from broken teeth
and gum abscesses so deep no tongue could
fully probe them without coming through
the other side covered in warm pus
and you left in the morning
leaving my sheets looking like
a patchwork quilt of many colours
after having elegantly wolfed down
a huge bacon and egg fry-up
accompanied by loud squelchy farts
presaging a dump in your knickers
and you never even suggested
we should have another date
so that old story about the ugly ones
being grateful is a load of *****
but I can't be too fussy really
now I'm pushing eighty-eight.

The fiery rumblings in my bloated belly
  mean I simply must blow off a smelly;
And, having just consumed a Vindaloo,
  I'm fearful of a major follow-through;
But it's one of those really lucky nights -
  I'm wearing my uncle's open-crotch tights.

'Ello, 'ello, is that the coppers?
I got somefink 4 U and I don't tell no whoppers -
That fatboy Billy Bunter from Number 4
'E won't be coming 'ome no more
'Cos I 'eard 'im 'aving a row wiv 'is Dad, old Zorro
And 'e won't be seen about the place tomorrow.

Alas! Poor old Fat Boy Billy from Number 4
Is in some black bags lying outside the door:
So come along and get 'im, coppers,
Before the ******* foxes get all stressy
Wiv their ******* great choppers
Which will make it well ******* messy.

Edna's Special Recipes No. 4:

"Le pit bull à la français"

By Edna

At this festive time of year, why be boring and choose a turkey? Especially since the poor creatures have been reared intensively, overfed and fattened artificially, kept in a cage or in a filthy shed, never having seen the sunshine.

So Edna says: offer your family something rather different this Christmas, something a little unusual.  Had you ever considered an American Pit Bull Terrier?  A Pittie may not be the first thing which springs to mind for Christmas dinner and I admit there are some drawbacks: they are difficult to get hold of: neighbours' pets are a dangerous option and modern intensive Pittie-farming methods don't work as the brutes are far too savage for most farmhands; also they have relatively little meat on them, being mainly muscle and hatred. However, these negatives are offset by the joy any fun-loving chef will gain from killing the ******* and you, as hostess, will bask in the happiness of your family as they contemplate what they are about to receive.

First, it is important only to use a FRESHLY killed mutt as Pit Bulls do not freeze well (they struggle and bark for what seems ages once shoved into the freezer) and the pre-packed, pre-gutted ones you will find in your local supermarket are likely to have been battery-reared and force-fed in order to put a bit of extra flesh on. Believe me, nothing quite matches the texture of a freshly killed Pittie. And of course, you get the head as a bonus for your pet cats to play with.

A stranger's pet is my own preferred animal as a neighbour might see you skulking round their back garden with a pick axe and twig what you were up to. So, off you go in the car and seek out your dinner. Once you have found a suitable four-legged meal, follow the owner home, wait for the right moment and then get the chloroform pads in action. One for the owner and one for the dog. Pop the zonked-out mutt into the strong black canvas bag you brought with you, shove it into the back of the car and off you go!

So now you've got your hound: what's the best way to **** it?  We gourmets have argued over this for years: decapitation, drowning, hanging, electrocution or beating to death with a sledgehammer? My own favourite method is to drop the drugged brute into a large tin bathtub of warm water and then add the 240v power cable. The expression on the dog's face when the volts kick in is fabulous but you need to be careful in case it leaps out of the bath and goes for your jugular. Hanging from a high tree, accompanied by extensive tenderizing with a baseball bat is a safer but equally enjoyable option. Two further benefits are that hanging is not so messy as the drowning/electrocution route and the whole family can watch a hanging in safety instead of having to risk the dog leaping out of the tub.

Once you are sure the dog is dead (about five minutes after it's stopped kicking and moaning), take it down and cut the head off with a cleaver.  Carefully remove the ears for use as decoration. If you have no cats to give the skull to, shove it on the top of your Christmas tree to provide a family talking point.

Next, skin the dog and discard, bearing in mind that it would be unwise to leave the telltale evidence for the binmen. My flaying advice is to use a sharp knife starting at the **** and working my way up to the neck. Be sure to remove all the ****** parts, as these do NOT taste good. It's nice to roast a Pittie whole, but few people have an oven big enough (unless you scored for a puppy that is). So, carefully cut up the cadaver into two or three separate joints. The following recipe is suitable for a nice shoulder or leg.

Rub all over with freshly ground sea salt and black pepper; make a series of deep incisions in the flesh at two-inch intervals and carefully insert slivers of fresh garlic. Place in your largest Le Creuset ***, with two pints of Evian water, a half-bottle of a full-bodied red wine, half a dozen French oignons and bring to the boil. Then reduce the heat and simmer for two to three hours, depending on weight. Be sure to check every 20 minutes that the liquid hasn't boiled away! Add extra wine and olive oil as necessary. Once the meat is tender, your dog is ready!

Serve your Pit Bull with mashed potatoes and a nice salad. I find a fruity Beaujolais drinks very well with stewed Pittie à la français but my paddy friends swear by Guinness. Whatever your tipple, enjoy our meal! And think: because of your caring approach to Christmas, one more turkey will live to see New Year and the world is rid of another Pit Bull horror.

Have you heard about old Erik Satie?
He was quite slim and not un fatti;
Son père was a Frog, his Ma a wee ****
(which must have given quite a shock
to his musical chums at the Conservatoire
where he wrote "Trois morceaux en forme de poire").

While sitting 'au piano' one fine day
At his Honfleur home so bright and gay,
Our Erik felt himself come over queer,
(le résultat triste de beaucoup de bière).
He hadn't felt so odd since he didn't know when
(that's when he wrote his "Gnossiennes").

Now I don't want you to think Erik was bent
That certainly wasn't what I meant;
But there's no doubt he was a little odd
(indeed many called him an asexual sod);
For, although French, he loved not the ladies
(and he also wrote three nice "Gymnopédies").

Many piano pieces which Satie penned
Are rather silly and round the bend;
One was called "Prélude for a Dog"
(which he wrote whilst sur le bogue);
Perhaps his best known work is called "Parade"
Which some people think is quite avant-garde.

He was a bit ***** and collected umbrellas
Which set him apart from saner fellers;
He had lots of velvet suits to his name
(and for some reason, they all looked the same).
But he over-did it on the *****, was often ******,
Thus he died prematurely, and is sorely missed.

A "Barry Hodges" poem*

I met this fat **** in a pub one day
Jesus, but she was a horrid sight,
She asked me if I was straight or gay
And would I like to kip with her that night?
I asked her how much she would cough
For a night of love with a chap like me
And the cow said I could **** right off
She wouldn't pay a copper coin for me.
It just shows even ugly ***** have their pride
And so there's hope for each and every one;
But if they won't pay cash for a good hard ride
They can go home and tweak their ***** alone.

A young man called Piotr Wislocki
Grew a HUGE boil on his botsky;
He took his sore crack
To a fat Polish quack
Who lanced it for three thousand zloty.

O* dear Lord and Father of Mankind

We humbly beg you to smash ***-sinners
Heavily in the face and lower regions too,
And also be sure to graciously give
Them a good old botty-poking with a red-hot poker,

And don't bother with using K-Y Jelly.

Can't you see in the dawn's early light
Ugly ***-sinners creeping home?
Not content with adultery, oh no,
The swine ******* frequently!

Yet the good Lord will not be mocked,
Oh no, never, ever will he be mocked!
Until you filthy ***-sinners grovel in the dust

And repent your evil ***-sins.
Remember that Hell's punishments await:
Eternal agony and a plague of boils on your genitals.
*!

I've  spent a really miserable month.
I told the wife we'd go out to a nice restaurant
On her fiftieth birthday,
Which naturally led to happy anticipation.
So, the evening before she asked me,
"Where are you going to take me on my birthday, dear?"
And I replied, quick as a flash, "Up the *******."

The silly ***** seemed to have suffered
A major sense of humour failure;
Surely my prezzie would be a sure fire winner,
Certain to restore bonking privileges.
But when she unwrapped it and saw
A giant green ****-plug to get her in the mood,
She turned quite nasty on me, to put it mildly.
So I slapped her one in the ******* kisser.

On some verdant green hill far away in cute little Palestine of old
Before the Israelis marched in and bunged out the owners
Jesus was hanging about on the cross not feeling too happy
I suppose he was dying for you and me because his Dad was asleep
And he doesn't care if you are a ****** or a giant or a fatty or a fairy!
Yessir! He loves everyone unequivocally provided they praise him endlessly
And receive him in their souls and sing him a load of ****** hymns!

But if you don't receive the LORD and reject the words of the EVIL ONE
He (God) will crush you totally and utterly like a blue-tailed fly
Squatting on a well-used and ill-cleaned second-hand lavatory brush
Without any exception whatsoever even if you are an ugly fat dwarf
As He don't hold with no discrimination nor positive action no way!
So get down on your knees (a shorter journey for amputees with stumps)
And get praying to THE LORD without blinking twice. Yeeha! Amen!

America the land of obesity and greed
Mean and morally bankrupt in the face of world poverty
Ever ready to eagerly attack a foreign country
Rednecked and rabidly racist
Ignorant and parochial to a sickening degree
Canada's ugly southern neighbour
Arrogant and self-opinionated
Narrow-minded and bigoted to the Nth degree
A total ******* disgrace really.

We walk along the beach at night,
Arms entwined and hearts entwined,
Waves lapping 'gainst our feet,
Pebbles scurrying like sand ***** 'twixt our toes.
  
Talking about *****, we are both
A little tickly in the naughty bits department,
As the gentle summer breeze
Wafts through our matted ***** hairs.
  
Just a brief hour or two ago,
We were strangers at the Pier disco,
And now our histories are to be
Inextricably linked by fate.
  
I do not know that, in a month or so,
I shall need to send you
A little yellow contact slip
From the Margate Hospital special clinic
  
Informing that you have been exposed to
A most unpleasant social disease
Which, with a bit of rotten luck,
Could easily rot your insides.
  
But, for now, our thoughts are far away
As we laugh and joke together
In our new found post-******,
Youthful lovers' camaraderie,
  
Not wanting to speak too loudly or disturb
The copulating pair by the nearby breakwater
(Not that they'd be put off by a thunderclap
Seeing as how he's on the short strokes by now).

You watch me from the bed
Where we have shared love's passion,
Your hair glistens in the morning light
O how I love you, my dearest.

My gorgeous form weaves its way
Gracefully across the room;
Then I throw the curtains back
On this bright April morning.

Let the Spring sunlight enter
And more fully illuminate
The next daring stage in our
Enticing ******* adventures.

Dazzled for a brief moment
By the brilliant solar rays,
You hear a rustling noise:
Precursor of new ****** delight.

I am wiping my well-toned bottom
After crapping on your carpet;
An enormous steaming mound awaits
To stimulate your ****** taste buds.

The second poem in the series by my alter ego, Count Orlok the wicked Vampyr*

O how the moon peeps out gaily from behind a pink cloud,
Its light shining wanly on the grave of my fat neighbour,
That ugly old ****, Bert Higgenbottom, follower of silly old Jesus,
As my vampyr fangs glisten in the ***** moonlight.

Ding! ****! The midnight bell tolls like the clappers
And I rise fully ***** to begin the horrid task
Which I have been putting off for months:
The ritual defilement of his mouldy corpse.

What a shock to discover his nightdress-clad body
Lying next to his collection of Doris Day LPs;
Thus I turn the putrid plump corpse over carefully
Before sodomising it with my mighty circumcised ****.

Yucch! It's a grim job but someone's got to do it.

You know as well as I do
that internet dating can have its ups
and downs
and thus, after so many futile meetings
and tragic misadventures
in a domestic UK situation,
I decided to spread my wings
and so I logged on to an Australian website
for lonely kangaroo lovers
yes it was www.blackstump-legover.com.au
where no holes were barred.

And I soon struck up a promising friendship
with someone who sounded like
a real goer, a total slapper,
with no morals whatsover
judging from the photo she posted
taken with a mobile phone
up her skirt
which showed her muffin *****
as well as what she had eaten
for breakfast yesterday,
poking its head out.

We finally agreed to meet
behind the old dunny
in the park where the abos go
to exchange their social security vouchers
for crack *******
or a bottle of Castlemain XXXX
or a quick one up each others' bots
in spite of the pong
on a sunny arvo.

You can imagine how effing disappointed
I was when she arrived
on a trailer attached to her grandson's ute
strapped to a battered gurney
(and almost insensate)
but still ready for a bit of backdoor action
but not from me, no sirree,
thank you very much mate:
I might be desperate, but
I would have had to have
clipped my nose shut with a clothes peg
to get anywhere near her
and my gag reflex simply couldn't cope.

So I bravely dragged the gurney
over to the convenient gap
in the fence overlooking the mighty ravine
and with a gentle shove
I sent her to that sweet place
where peace can be found
and I can still hear her scream
as she bounced off the rocks
accusing me of being illegitimate
before silence reigned
and I smiled in joy.

It only goes to show, O my friends,
that there are female dogs
of the most hideous kind
on every sodding continent
on this dear planet of ours;
and I may as well stick to
a handful of Nivea cream
and a Kleenex, at least the odour
is wholesome.

Yes, it's the fifth in the COUNT ORLOK series!

Ah! Sweet Death comes slowly
   to my poor victims,
As I **** their lifeblood
   through their gargling screams.

How I enjoy their cries
  for mercy and compassion,
Just before I give them
  eight inches up the ****.

CHORUS  (Sung to the tune of "Rawhide")

Thrusting, thrusting, thrusting,
Though the smell's disgusting
Yeeha!
I'm evil beyond measure
And I gain my evil pleasure

Through rain and wind and weather,
My ****-splattered **** will never
Forget the pangs of pleasure
Inside...inside...
Yeeeeee-Hawwww!!!!"

[Orlok wipes crap off vampiric **** and flies off,
the wnd whistling through his gaping zip.]

I can scarcely bring myself to tell the tale
of how yet another internet date
went tragically wrong thanks to
shameless deceit crueller than I can say.

I suffer so many sadnesses as I seek true love
via internet site
after internet site
but I really thought yes
this time yes this time yes
finally after so many ****-ups
of one sort or another
so I foolishly imagined I was onto a good thing
but would you believe it
another date went wrong
and my poor heart breaks.

I recall 'twas a a cool autumn evening
with a hint of hail in the sky
but we had agreed to meet
perhaps optimistically
at a secluded spot in the municipal gardens
down by the victorian fountain
where the queers congregate by night
leaving skidmarks on the paintwork
after deep **** love therapy.

I can still hear the tweety-birds singing
their oh-so-nice chirping song
in the trees where they perched
trying to **** on passers-by
especially the handicapped
(who could less easily dodge
their good luck messages
without toppling over).

I ran headlong down the path
and my little ***** wobbled
with eager anticipation of love
innocently carelessly naively perhaps
for I felt deep in my trusting heart
that at last with a bit of luck
I might score for a good hard poke
on our first date or at least a right deep feel-up
and a copious exchange of mouth fluids
at the very very least.

I read through the print-out
from the new internet site
where serendipity had brought us
together like lost souls in a storm
(www.******-poking.com since you ask)
and I felt your comment
'I love *******, ******* and more'
was probably good sign
all in all
bearing in mind its implications.

I thought you might be quite a looker
from the photo you had posted
especially since I could
just about partially see
the wicked grin on your face
whilst you were ******* on
two obese men's knobs
(in the photo I mean)
and then you appeared
with your huge mongoloid skull
peeping excitedly out
of the filthy rags you wore
oh dear jesus I cried out in joy
I could smell your ****-drenched ******
from seventy-five yards away
and one of the swans on the lake
drowned itself to escape the pong.

I stared at the diarrhoea oozing from your pants
in romantic dollops
we strolled through the park
(well I strolled but you hobbled)
chattering away the way lovers do
when they are up for it
against all the ******* odds
and as I have observed on other occasions
love isn’t just a matter of aesthetics
after all animal attraction has a lot going for it
but you have to draw the line
somewhere
and you were way out of order
so very reluctantly
(but firmly and resolutely)
I gave you a gentle push
toppling you into the swollen stream
as it exited the decorative lake
and believe me when I say
that I will always remember the sound
of your aquatic scream
as the fast-moving current
took you away from my sad eyes
down to the millrace
and merciful release
from a life of disappointment.

People think that Brussels is an interesting city,
Full of beer, full of mussels and pommes frites
And easy to buy a really nice box of chocolates
(Personally I prefer the dark ******* as they are less sweet).
But there is another side to the city
Believe me, I know, I have been there
And I have seen it in all its shocking terror.

I was there, just off la Grand' Place (Grotemarkt in Flemish),
With my younger sister, a fat and ugly girl,
Who had a very pronounced lisp and a lot of oozing ****** spots,
When a gang of ill-dressed American youths,
Probably the sons of wealthy businessmen or diplomats,
Sky-high on coca-cola, or whatever vile filth,
Attacked us, mugged us, gave us a total bashing-up,
And we ran quite hard but could not escape from them.

And they left her lying there in the gutter,
Her legs broken to bits and her head half-chopped off,
And for what? They were envious of her false hairpiece
(as it made her look half-human, a major improvement).
She dragged out a miserable half-alive existence
For a few awful months in a dilapidated infirmary;
Dear God, she will not be going to Brussels again
In fact she will not be going anywhere at all,
Apart from into an early grave, that is.

The fiery rumblings in my bloated belly
  mean I simply must blow off a smelly;
And, having just consumed a Vindaloo,
  I'm fearful of a major follow-through;
But it's one of those really lucky nights -
  I'm wearing my uncle's open-crotch tights,
Not correctly, as is my usual wont
  But, thank Christ, they're back to front.

The sun, a blazing circle of celestial fire
Hangs low upon the horizon,
Its fiery glory reflecting orangely
On the wind-whipped, blue-green sea.
  
The late afternoon sees my love and I,
Arms and legs entwined, ******* naked on the beach,
Rapt in appreciation of that blest moment
When sun and sea join in mystic communion.
  
And yet, all is not golden:
When one mentions the word "legs"
Once is certainly grammatically correct, yet
One does not convey the true situation to the reader.
  
You see, my lover is the sad possessor
Of a fifty percent deficit in the podial department,
Whilst I have a full double complement.
And thus to so-called act of generation
(Most times mis-named, for which I thank the gods)
Is a feat* requiring great dexterous equilibrium.
  
However, my love's club foot (speaking candidly,
An admitted visual defect most times)
Now comes to the rescue of Eros' urgent needs,
With the aid of a little mutual ingenuity.
  
Balancing carefully on my dear one's abbreviated podex,
Supported carefully by the discarded surgical boot,
A passable **** can usually be achieved.
Only the halitosis appears irremediable.

The sun, a blazing circle of celestial fire
Hangs low upon the horizon,
Its fiery glory reflecting orangely
On the wind-whipped, blue-green sea.
  
The late afternoon sees my love and I,
Arms and legs entwined, ******* naked on the beach,
Rapt in appreciation of that blest moment
When sun and sea join in mystic communion.
  
And yet, all is not golden:
When one mentions the word "legs"
Once is certainly grammatically correct, yet
One does not convey the true situation to the reader.
  
You see, my lover is the sad possessor
Of a fifty percent deficit in the podial department,
Whilst I have a full double complement.
And thus to so-called act of generation
(Most times mis-named, for which I thank the gods)
Is a feat requiring great dexterous equilibrium.
  
However, my love's club foot (speaking candidly,
An admitted visual defect most times)
Now comes to the rescue of Eros' urgent needs,
With the aid of a little mutual ingenuity.
  
Balancing carefully on my dear one's abbreviated podex,
Supported carefully by the discarded surgical boot,
A passable **** can usually be achieved.
Only the halitosis appears irremediable.

A Tale of ****** Excitement by Herr Barty Maulwurf

Often **** tales of my past I am writing and sometimes they are a little rude and porny but now I will try to be only slightly profane at request of new friends I am making everywhere. This tale very sensual story is, told by master storyteller (which is me). Filthy bits included. *Danke sehr.

Although I so much hate repetitive to be, Barty Mole must as always apologise for his occasionally slight errors in English-writing as he writes the English language not so very top-class (but he ***** English girls' tongues lots and likes them his tonsils to wipe so good). I (me, Barty) am German person but special type of that because as I are half-and-half black/white (not striped or even top half white, bottom half black, but mixed-up goldene-brun colouring), by this I must explain mein Papa was black US soldier in Germany who did enormous number of bouncy-bouncies with various ladies including meine Mutti (note to monoglots: this means my Mummy) - who was part-time Lili Marlen type tarty number, great **** and much-used **** - for tinned milk, coffee, ciggies, silk stockings and comfy underwear with soft non-scratchy gussets for once instead of unlined which tickle *****-*****, also she was a major sort of a ****** in her day so combined business with pleasure, and why not, we got these bits under our ******* so use them or they dry up (so thinks der Barty.). Also please you will remember black market utterly rampant in post-war period because the kind ****** Allies smashed my beautiful homeland (Germany) to little bits and then guess what even worse Russkies came and stole anything leftovers and did mass rapings of anyone with two legs (or less, in fact easier as poor tarts can't run away), but my Mutti ran and avoided Ivans, she not any kind of idiot, not going to give it away for free, and not liking cheap rotgut ***** anyway. Also Russkies never wash bottoms-hole so not much fun in the sack with smelly-bummed Ivans.

Nowadays Barty (that's me) am not so young, indeed now out of work living in Hamburg (home of inventor of hamburgers, Herr Wendi McDonald-Burgerkoenig) but I remember some super **** going-ons from mine mis-spended youth and middle age, my God I was a right goer, make no mistake about that, I had more lady friends than most people have hot luncheons mainly because I inheritated huge lovepole (23 centimetres, well over 9 inches in UK/US measurement style) from my dear Poppa, God rest his swindling soul. And ladies like the big bronzed stick as ramrod lovepole, you bet your fat wobbly ***, dear reader, 100% sure.

As often I say to my multitudinous readers, I never accept that it is only top-class ***-event to make love-humpings between male person who is in all one piece (full complementing legs, arms, naughty pieces etc etc) and lady who in similar state of repair (2 legs, 2 arms, 2 boobos, back and front naughty areas also) so I shall now recall romantic interlude with one-legged groupie I am meeting at rocking Konzert in Berlin with famous German group DIE TOTEN HOSEN (this means "The Dead Trousers" look them up on Google you think I am joking? no, German musicians have great sense of humour and also almost for free get to **** a lot of birds).

This story are total true, swear it on Mummy's honour (big joke, what honour I hear you said out of side of mouth, but watch your manners please or I smash you one in your effing gob) this not so explicit as usual so much apologies to filthy pervies wanting cheap smuttings, you come in wrong place (*******).

So now here we go with telling of how I got on good and ***** with one-legged lady I meet in bar of Grosse Konzerthalle in Berlin after we go from Konzert by Toten Hosen - noise so fickende loud we not able to hear each other talk as we total deafened for at least 1 hour, so just wink over bar to each other and Robert is dein Onkel.

I digressed - when I saw really pretty girl at bar with **** three-inch bolt through her lips and I think, WOW, if she got so much metal in her face, what the Fick she got in her *******!!!!  I notice she leaning against wall, I think she a bit drunk but I find out she only got one leg and it's because she has only one leg she would go falling over if not lean on walls. Never mind, I think to myself, I'll try this out for size, in for a pfenning (penny), in for a pfund (pound), except now it's in for a cent, in for a euro which sounds naffs. So we have several dozen beers and a couple of schnapplis and she is good fun, laugh at all Barty's filthy jokes and innuendos and then, out of blue, she says with naughty giggling, "The night is young but we're not so effing young and when you have any more beers you don't stand up, fall flat on handsome face, and not able to get great big ****** up me to shove it", WOW I thought, this is some forward one-legged piece of work. So no more further ado and we jump in taxi (pay 50:50 as Barty is gent and refuse to allow her pay whole fare) and go to her place.

Hildegard is her name and she was pretty good looking bird, great booboes, narrow very **** waistlines, very cute botty sticking out like great big pair of rubber footballs, but let's be frank, liebe Freunde, her main claim to eternal fame in Barty's immense ***-memory bank was the leg-stump, only one of them she had. She tells me missing limb result of accident with vicious bacon-slicing machineries at LIDL and I not like to probe too deeply, because I leave the probing up to my 23cm (9 inch) lovepole instead.

Thus we had many love-makes that night and I got to find her stumpy-thing quite **** in weird kind of way, very smooth skin on it and odd colour (purplish) too. Only problem of was hard to do it Alsatian-style as she topple off bed and me with her, especially since we have many more beers down hatches by that time. Never mind, make up for this with very high class (FIVE STAR!) "neunundsechzig" (German for 69 just in case you not understand)! WOW she utter hot stuff in oral department store. Her tongue like starving St Bernard guzzling the bowl of nice fresh spring water on hottest summer day in century! Swallow everything, stray hairs and all.

Also Hildegard very noisy lady when she does the comings, which Barty likes very much indeed. Like demented demon being bashed around her head with three-metre long metal crowbar every single time she gets one off, she screamed. "Ooooooh, ich komme, ich komme, ach, ja, ja, ja, ja," she shrieks GOOD & LOUD like fat Wagnerian heroine with immensely red hot poker up backside-hole (which not far off the truth when Barty gets stuck into his fabbo ***-rhythm, like whirring up and down piston on Mitsubishi motor tricycle). Even allowing for drunken prematured senilities lapse, I happy to recall seven times for me that night and maybe twenty for her, WOW, what a filthy one-leg hornbag!

We meet a few more time for repeat bonky session but never so good as first time round, but that's because Barty sober next times, nothing new in the history of love there which is very philophical pensée. Also Barty's interest in the leggy-stump waned a bit after a couple of weeks.  But Barty has good live-action photos to keep his memories warm, WOW, they are some totally hot ones! I know Hildegard must have the equal happy memories of old Barty, bet she never saw such a big ***** as his ever again (NB: 23 cm lovepole)!

Mit freundlichen Gruessen
von Ihre
Bartholomew Mole (=Maulwurf)
(23 cm brown lovepole)

Badly played hymn tunes
from hungover unemployed miners
echoing down the slum streets
barely audible
over the sounds of Coronation Street
on 't telly
and the neighbours' uninhibited belching
post coitally.