They should still grade the level at which people read and when you’re an adult have it tattooed to your face or made to wear a badge displaying said number. This way we won’t have to entertain the people who will clearly never challenge us intellectually and embarrass them enough to shock them into at least trying to fucking better themselves.
I can go out and meet women, women who will give me their number, kiss me or (as physically possible) take me off and indulge in sexual acts. I can do this at will. I know this. I can go out and meet a woman any time but for the life of me I can’t go out and find a decent argument.
an open letter to Samantha Brick
Dear Mrs Brick,
It’s a great honour for me to be writing a letter to someone as beautiful as yourself. As a man, what else do we have to value women for other than their looks? I mean, even though your now in your 40’s, or the grave as I’m sure you’d agree for women in our media, you’re still managing to use aesthetics to advance in your career. Good for you.
I woke today to discover a large amount of interest in a piece you wrote regarding Mary Beard. Her surname is rather unfortunate for a woman to have isn’t it? Beard’s belong on men’s faces, maybe she should have changed it? How about Mary Pink ‘n Fluffy? That’s reads a little warmer now. So, Professor Pink ‘n Fluffy is a 57 year old (almost dead) classicist with grey hair who wants to talk about Romans in a history programme. Who the fuck does this intelligent cunt think she is? Doesn’t she realise that the only way to be on our screens is to succumb to the mindless buzz of the sunbed and sporadic injections of dangerous chemicals into her face? This un-married (clearly a lesbian) woman wishes to use her vast knowledge to present a programme without making an effort to look at least half presentable enough for me to wank over? She disgusts me. As a man with very little interest in history how on earth does she intend to grab my attention? I’ve only seen pictures of her on here and am currently curing the horror I witnessed by looking at pictures of you with your incredibly handsome husband.
Luckily I have eyes. Does this woman Professor Dyke ‘n fluffy not realise that men, even the Romans were only glad of sight when they had pretty, vacuous women to look at? I read AA Gills comments when he reviewed her programme, a clever ruse for ugly people to force their saggy faces onto my masturbation set. He got it right, she should stay away from our screens all together. If she really cares about her programme, she could easily have let a generic pretty girl to do it while she walks around the back of the building and hangs herself, crying about the state of her appearance. Good riddance right? We’d all rather see a girl, clueless over what exactly comes out of her mouth instead of listening to the aptly metaphoric horse’s mouth.
When we look at the BBC we already have programmes like QI. A series all about sex. Why else would you pick a host such as Stephen Fry? For his beautiful brain and superb skills of oration? Of course I know this is a poor comparison to make as it doesn’t matter what men look like on our television of course. It’s a scientific fact that only men can teach us anything ever. We get our information from the men of the world, probably why the school system is so poor as the part of a woman’s brain which allows her to pass on information is actually only biologically conditioned to pick out make-up and seek out new hairstyles. Imagine Top Gear with women…we would need some truly beautiful specimens to replace the gorgeous hunks of Alpha machismo encapsulated in Jeremy Clarkson…but then women can’t drive so again it’s a poor example.
Of course, I’ve heard the other side’s pitiful argument. That a woman such as Mary Beard who has taken a great amount of time to devote herself to learning about history and things that interest her away from looking as pretty as a 40 year old, barely decent looking female journalist, should be regarded as honest and making a programme of interest that people should focus on. I’ve heard that and I’ve heard it said that possibly a woman such as Samantha Brick, a journalist with serious delusions of her own image should possibly admit to the fact that she hasn’t even seen the programme and doesn’t have any comment of any validity on anything that is important away from the superficial, fickle world of how women look. Some may say it’s incredibly perverse of you to only look at the surface of a person, a surface built solely from genetics, common and uninteresting. Some have said that by continuing to distance yourself from the reality of your own image whilst also diminishing the actual merits of what intelligent women with drive and perseverance can do is both damaging to your body of work and insulting to women everywhere who couldn’t give a fuck about the way they look only that their voice is heard. Some may say that.
But what do they know right? Fuck them. They’re only ugly anyway. I guess you’ll have plenty to say about how you’ve been victimised in the wake of all this tomorrow and I look forward to reading it. You sexy woman you.
All the best
After 5 correct replies to the problem in feeling nerdy I am now ending the reward for any further replies.
I shan’t post the winners identities nor the prize they receive but I can say that one of them doesn’t want theirs…I shall pester them to reconsider but there may be an opening in the competetion for the next correct answer! You may still receive the black and white nude picture (of me) signed (not by me) personally to you! How could you resist being a smart arse just for one or two minutes in order to get that?
The Swede and the Madame
So I thought you people needed nay, warranted a more upbeat yarn after reading (if you did) my account of a deceitful ex girlfriend. I was storing this one for later but hell, I have enough in my portfolio to keep throwing out there.
This goes back to my first year in university and before I give away my career choice made years ago, this was a very specialist school of learning teaching a specific subject. Either way, in my very first year I met this gorgeous girl called…well we’ll just call her Sara. She was a flatmate with someone on my course who already lived in London, she was a year younger than me at 20 and had this beautiful Swedish accent, primarily because she was Swedish.
It was my first month on the course and I had a penchant for wearing ridiculous hats wherever I went. I was invited to a house party and wore a traditional straw chestnut coloured American Stetson carrying my own beer on the tube. My flatmate has just started seeing a model, who in turn was incredibly hot if not a bit dumb. Sex with her I could tell would be hot judging from his accounts and the noises emanating through the bedroom walls. The tube in London is such an eccentric place depending on where you live, you’ll find buskers, street theatre and at the opposite end of the spectrum I was told that during morning rush hour there is an average of 5 millionaires per carriage on each train. Needless to say, a 21 year old male wearing an overbearing straw hat in bitterly cold November although for a second may stand out; it was still a pretty mediocre attempt at hogging attention in retrospect when compared to other people.
When we got to the house my flat mate took his girlfriend immediately to find an empty room to defile her in some wonderfully exotic position and I started drinking and flirting with everyone male or female. Whilst dancing to I believe it was Michael Jackson in some incredibly drunken homage to cheesy music, Sara approached me asking to wear my hat. “This hat? This hat is incredibly special to me and can only be worn by people I trust. So as an act of good faith I’ll let you wear it after we go for a chat so I can interrogate you, make sure you’re worthy, you smoke?” We went to the front door and lit up. She looked great in the cold, somehow managing to wear my jacket and look cute and comfy in horrid conditions.
We hit it off, by that I mean she was beautiful, she loved my jokes and she was constantly checking me out. If we weren’t going back to one of our places together, tonight it could only be my fault. It took me another minute of flirting to discover she was a singer and very intelligent fluent in 8 languages and single. That last one being a bit of a turn off would have been far more appealing if she was attached but we’ll go with what we’ve got. A minute later and I said “So you going to finish that cigarette and kiss me or what? I’m going in soon.” She threw the cigarette away, I’d have finished that I remember thinking, and came really close closing her eyes…we decided on my place and a week later, she’d only gone home to get fresh clothes and showery stuff.
Sara had this gorgeous blonde hair and amazing little body. In her underwear I was always blown away, permanently matching, consistently fancy and expensive never anything less than spectacular. She did the cutest thing where she’d hug you in bed with her entire body as if clinging to you was the most incredible thing anyone could ever do and was a privilege and would sigh, all the time it sounded cute and made me smile. She really was incredible and boy did she know it.
We didn’t last long, the sex was ok but a tad dull and beyond our initial attraction we had very little in common. Conversations were an effort and most mornings were spent with her stood in front of my mirror looking at herself and not in a critical way, her eyes let on that she liked what she saw. When sleeping with a person who thinks this highly of themselves it’s no joke, I mean if they look this perfect, why should they feel the need to do any work in the bedroom? However it wasn’t me who finished it, it was her or more precisely, her actions.
I was bombarded with requests from my flatmate to go with him to a party held by his girlfriend. As well as a model she also had a degree to study for and a part time job in Abercrombie and Fitch. This was a party for the latter, her work mates and if you’ve never been to an Abercrombie and Fitch store you need to know its serious eye candy regardless of Gender, you’re catered for. The plan was to go out for drinks and then onto a club all in tow and head back to a flat, seeing as my flatmate and I had nothing to do in the morning this was most likely to be ours, where there would be a copious amount of drugs sprawled about on the coffee table in the front room. Our neighbours never complained about noise from our parties or from drunken/stoned nights playing guitar in the living room so they wouldn’t mind a party with several drunken, drugged up young ladies who belonged on magazine covers. I however was not attending this party as I was heading over to Sarah’s because she wanted to have dinner.
I picked up a bottle of wine on route, as fine a quality as my student loan could muster came to her door and was greeted by a tall, indisputably soaring and broad figure of a male wearing an old army jacket stood in the doorway. “Hello, you must be *******, come in.” He took my coat with one giant hand whilst engulfing the bottle of red with the other making it look like a miniature bottle in his novelty paw. I went through to the kitchen where Sarah was stood cooking with an apron on…and nothing else. Turning completely blasé in my direction, huge grin flashing those faultless white veneers and welcoming me to sit down at the table.
I immediately feared an impending sexual experience that I was being courted for. Now I’m not a prude by any stretch of the imagination, indeed I’d already had sex with several of my mates and other girls but not gay sex always with guys I knew and strict unwritten rules that we were only there to focus on the female of the trio, this being said, I had kissed guys but always as a joke and never for gratification nor any curiosity. This occasion however I was confronted with one of the sweetest girls if not a trifle tedious and a man who resembled the back of a bus that I didn’t know and would almost certainly have a far enhanced penis than me and may want to put it places I was unprepared to go.
We sat down and she came over and sat on his lap and kissed him then did the same to me but I stopped her. “Not for me, sorry Sara.” They conversed, not in Swedish but in Russian, smart arse that she was and I couldn’t understand a word of it but was quite clearly the entire content and source for their laughs most likely at the expense of my square behaviour. Not one to be outdone in the licentious department I said whatever they were talking about feel free to chat about in English, I can take it. “I just said, you British are so humdrum and you wouldn’t accept sharing a girl like me.” Safe in the knowledge that I didn’t want to sleep with her again and this was my second choice of scene tonight, I really wanted to be among dumb models I decided it was time to leave but not like this, I can’t let down the people of Britain this had turned into an international situation. I stand by this next statement, people I’ve met from other countries when out in London or Manchester or any of the many great destinations in the British Isles have all said the same thing, “You Brits love to party, hard.” With this pushing me forwards and an honour to uphold I did something very fucking daft.
“I’m not as stuffy as you think I am Sara.” Then I leant over and kissed this giant of a guy, who immediately rose to his feet and pushed me clean across the kitchen, my feet not touching the floor. To this day I don’t know what country this man monster originated from but I do know this, they aren’t big fans of homosexuality. This is the gist of the language I understood from his language whilst Sarah screamed at me to leave, quickly, get out. SLAM! A fist caught me in the side of the head, I retreat to a boxing ring from 6 years before my last fight and as the next fist come for me I manage to move my head and it catches me on the shoulder. It was a fantastic move considering the ring rust but my ability to snap into it disappears and I’m still faced with him so I did what I feel was the greatest option, I punched him very hard in the cock. Uppercut to the groin, he dropped wincing away, I grabbed my coat and bottle of red and sprinted back to the night bus.
I’d left my wallet there and didn’t dare go back, so I opened the bottle of red (screw top, classy) lit a cigarette and began walking. It took me 2 hours, mostly spent looking at street signs which have shortened post codes such as SW1, NE14 and so on scribed on them, these were my guide home where after several wrong turns I could decipher the general direction to get back to my flat where I was grateful to find I’d held onto my keys. This was a good job as when I got inside I could hear my flatmate noisily having sex in his room and I found that the living room was a mess, two male Abercrombie and Fitch employee’s, both very handsome, were also having sex on my couch. They stopped abruptly and I said “carry on just give me 2 seconds.” There was a note on the table scrawled on one of my books I needed to return to the library.
Party finished early, so we all came back here.
Saved you some MDMA, it’s on the table in premade bombs help yourself.
Ps there may be some people sleeping in your room.
There on the table, sure enough, were 2 rolling papers lightly packed with scrumptious Madame. If foreign to MDMA I’d violently advise you to attempt it, with friends who know about it if you’re that worried.
Madame, as my friends and I call it, is quite possibly the greatest drug known to man. I love everyone on Madame and couldn’t wait to take some and chat to the people sitting in my bedroom if the note were accurate. If on the other hand it was these two hulks in my living room possessing each other on my horrid green couch that the note referred to I was quite happy to go to my room, play guitar and watch fear and loathing in Las Vegas as I wasn’t in the mood to join these guys, one bad experience with a potential gay lover already under my hat tonight I was acquiesce to avoid a repeat.
I walked up the stairs, past my flatmates room where he was really going for it, very likely with condoms he’d stolen from my bed side table. I walked to my door where the distinct clatter of my guitar falling could be heard. I opened the door. There on my bed, MY BED, was the dazzling apparition of 4 female employee’s from Abercrombie and Fitch, semi naked and kissing each other.
It turns out that my flatmates insatiable need to conquer his girlfriend at any given opportunity mixed with MDMA had left him to leave me with some on the table, write a note on my now un-returnable library book, and take her to bed. The completely ludicrous animalistic noises they made when combined with the MDMA made everyone downstairs incredible horny, so they all started kissing. More precisely the boys kissed and began to strip and go down on each other in front of the girls who, feeling totally abandoned decided to venture upstairs. Knocking on my flatmates door he invited them in mid coitus, which was an idea that didn’t appeal to his girlfriend, clearly not a sharer so he told them to go in my room and watch a film, his girlfriend said it wasn’t fair on me and that he should add it on the note. So he did, then ran back to bed to continue his session. This brings us I believe up to date and if you are a doubter of this sequence of events, I’d suggest that you’ve never taken any MDMA as I am sure without this astonishing drug functioning to such an extent, this entire situation would not have happened.
I found myself plonked right in the middle of this with a bottle of red inside me and a sight any man as erotically tainted as I could appreciate.
GIRL 1: You must be *******. Is this your bed?
GIRL 2: Sorry we just got carried away.
ME: Totally understandable.
GIRL 1: So are you going to join us?
I removed my clothes, popped one bomb of Madame and walked the three metres to heaven; this is definitely worth a punch to the side of the head I thought. “Ok ladies, who’s first?”