B.I.B.L.E. Basher.

Met up with an old, old friend last night, Basher, who I haven't seen for absolutely ages! He's a lovely fella, tall, dark, handsome (unusual for someone in his line of work), witty, astonishingly clever and, rather unfortunately (for me), as straight as anyone could possibly be.
But he always has a story to tell and what he told me last night scared the Hell out of me!
Basher works in a laboratory, for an organization called the British Institute of Bio-Lateral Engineering (B.I.B.L.E.), where, it seems, they've been harbouring a dark secret for many years, now.
Quite some time ago, they discovered the existence of a chemical so lethal and in such abundance on our planet that they had little choice but to keep quiet about it, to avoid the mass panic and hysteria that would ensue awareness of it. In the meantime, he and his team have had to watch on, impotently, while people have died in their thousands as a direct, or indirect, result of contact with this chemical. He told me about this last night, I believe, just to get it off his chest but, I'm sorry Basher, I think people have the right to know, especially as particularly strong concentrations of it can be found right here, around Thanet!

It's called di-hydrogen monoxide and here's a few examples of what it's capable of.

1. It causes almost immediate death by inhalation.

2. In it's gaseous state, it will cause severe burns to living tissue.

3. In larger quantities (which, apparently, is not uncommon) it has been responsible for the majority of environmental degradation, throughout Earth's history.

4. On a few occasions in the past, when one or two other freak conditions coincide, this chemical has wiped out entire civilisations in a matter of minutes.

5. Even in it's frozen state, it is still not safe and has caused countless deaths, throughout Human history.

After a small, practical demonstration, I could clearly see that Basher was neither lying nor exaggerating about any of this!

Scary stuff, eh?


ps. If anyone owns, or knows someone that owns, a hamster that has just given birth to a litter, could they let me know please, as I now need a new one! Thanks.

EnigMa'am.

Well, no wonder that the stocky fella, called Andrew (I thought), behind the bar in Churchills, seemed to display a slight femininity about himself!
Thinking that he was, quite obviously, one of the tribe, I made my play for him, only to discover that he's actually a woman!

How embarrasing!!!

And I have a sneaking suspicion that the 'friends' who were there with me, had cottoned on to that fact a while before I did. Very funny, indeed!

I think I'll just stick to Birchington from now on, where men are men, women are women and the only thing that you're likely to find in-between them would be the occasional condom.

Flying South.

Quite apart from being a popular euphemism for someone suffering from 'Pele's disease' (no, not the ability to play astonishingly good football (oxymoron?)), it can also mean taking off for sunnier climes, which, after having my coat ruined by an, apparently, educated thug, I fully intend to do!
Unfortunately, with limited funds, I find myself unable to jet off much further than Ramsgate for the weekend. Still, I wouldn't mind another stab at Burly Wolfman, behind the bar in Churchills, as I'm convinced that he's right up for it!

So, if any of you lovely bloggers fancy meeting up there, over the weekend, I'll be the good-looking fella propping up the bar, not wearing a beautiful, silk sheen, brilliant white, knee length coat with fluffy pink collar and cuffs.

Birching 'Em.

There's not much that I find more satisfying than my after dinner walk with Wooley Woofer, my faithful companion and girl's best friend. Doing that in Birchington, of late, has become a bit of a nightmare, though.
Do all the 'chavs' in Thanet congregate here or has this town, somehow, managed to spawn the créme de la créme of them? While the police are cowering on the other side of the Isle, in Dumpton Gap, waiting to pounce on any five-year-old that picks up a lump of chalk to practice writing their name with, these errant youths are running amok here!
Having learned to ignore the odd strange noise that, on occasion, follows one around the center of town at night, I was most distressed to discover, upon returning home last night, that my favourite coat had been vandalised. Some bored (boring?) idiot had sprayed the word 'WUG' on the back of it with yellow line marking paint. Thinking I may find some measure of solice in my old mate, The Cambridge Online Dictionary, it seems that they're as clueless as I to the meaning of this strange word. The nearest I could come to making sense of it, and I hasten to add that this is pure guess-work, is that it might be the sound emitted by one of these 'pillocks of the community', were they to be stripped naked and thrashed with a piece of birch, in the middle of town, on a Saturday afternoon, for the viewing pleasure of an intimidated Township.

Dream on, eh!

B*B

Call me thick, if you like, but sometimes I just don't get jokes. So when my dear chum Bob came round last night, chuffed to bits and giggling like a looney about having had a 'B' tatooed on each bum cheek, I really couldn't see what all the fuss was about!
"It spells my name when I bend over." He said, demonstrating to no avail.
"Well I'm sorry," I replied "but who spells their name with an asterisk?"
Much as I hate to have to correct someone's spelling but I felt obliged to step in and make an 'O' of the offending symbol.
"There, that's better!" I opined, panting slightly.

Though I still think that SH*T might have worked better, especially after a bit of fun when his rear end would bear the legend 'SHOT'!

Tight Arse!

Ordinarily, a sought after quality in a date, however, it pays to be careful what you wish for, sometimes. Thinking that I was making some headway with a gorgeous young chap in The Punch and Judy, last night, alarm bells started ringing with his reluctance to put his hand in his pocket and buy a drink. After numerous and progressively less subtle hints, I decided to ask him directly what his game was and was furnished with the reply "I'm buggered if I'm going to line Frank Thorley's pockets for him!"

Oh dear!

His loss, really. Had he done so, he may well have been!

Digital Doctor Has Finger On Pulses.

Having had one or two problems, of late, with my 'raison d'être', I decided to call upon the wisdom of my online Birchington chum, Dr 'Samuel' (proctologist extraordinaire), to see if he could help.
After a swift, but delicate, examination, he opined that my problem may stem from a combination of Thanet life and a diet far too rich in lentils and chick-peas, recommending that I ease up on both (but not until he'd left, of course!).
I can't honestly say that I'm too happy about that but if it's going to save all the embarrassment (and mess) that I've been experiencing recently, well, hey-ho, I'll give it a go.

He's such a good man, the Doc, and a wonderful lover (if a bit brutal at times) that it really does escape me as to why he has so few friends!

Never Put A Whore's Gift In Your Mouth!

I must say that I'm a bit cheesed off at the moment and I wish that I could stop giggling like a little girl, so that I can take 'being cheesed off' a bit more seriously!
My friend Mary Anna, part time whore/drug dealer/dodgy cook, made some cookies for me earlier today and they've, quite unexpectedly, gone straight to my head.
She knows that the only drug I like to be injected with is life (and preferably organically, by the male of the species), so I think we may have to have words!
In the meantime, though, I think all this giggling is attracting some unwanted attention from the police, so to be on the safe side I'm going to pop off now and flush the rest of those cookies down the toilet before torching my kitchen to get rid of all the crumbs.

Better safe than sorry!

New Years Revolution.

Ordinarily, I struggle a bit to find something worth resolving enough that I'll actually stick to my guns with it.
But the answer is, and always has been, I'd suppose, that I ought to devote as much of my time as possible encouraging people to stop living in denial about their bisexual natures.

Well, I'm convinced that everyone has one, to one degree or another.

The Roman Empire, some 2000 years ago, enjoyed a much more enlightened culture than anything that exists today (that we get to hear about, that is), embracing the cultures that they 'conquered' and incorporating them into their own, rather than destroying and replacing them. And, of course, seeking sexual comfort with little regard to the sex of their partners.

The church, in their effort to control the masses in their own 'puritanical' way, have put paid to all that and left us scared shitless of Divine Retribution, should we explore our own desires rather than their/our faith!

And there's some irony there, too, as I'm sure many a Roman Catholic choirboy will attest.

Do we really need someone dictating bedroom rules to us?

I'm inclined to think not, personally!