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Greetings, all!
As a fun way out of lock down I will return to work with a one off unique ‘bush taming’ service offer.

I let nature take its course during the enforced work break and have gone 100% au naturelle ‘down there’ resulting in me proudly sporting what is best described as a very traditional 70’s bush.

She is now quite the growler and is very much in need of pruning. Are you the man for the job?

The end result will be my preferred ‘best of both worlds’. That is, a neatly trimmed snatch comprising *of* smoothness to the lips, clit, and bum cheeks and with trimmed grass on the pitch above my pierced clitoral hood.

This will be a booking of 4 hours plus as I’ll need to sense your vibe before entrusting you to progress from a typical booking, complete with my usual menu of activities, towards that which requires clippers (provided) I reserve the right not to press on with any form of minge topiary unless I’m completely relaxed in your company. A discretionary razor may be provided for finishing touches. No scissors will be involved at any point.

Another pre requisite is to go down on said forest prior to her transformation back into this decade. Doing so afterwards will involve a dental damn to prevent infections associated with cunnilingus so soon after shaving.

This one off bush taming service is 4hrs at £600. £110 to add an hour. £1000 overnight 7pm-9am involving 5 hours sleep time.

Usual vetting process applies. A Screen shot of 2x bills With name and address for home visits. Full name and booking reference for hotels.

So, there we are then…

Snip happy, anyone?

A change in temperature inevitably triggers a rambling updated word wank, aka blog, from the likes of me. Shitmas is coming and as I may have said previously I’d prefer it to visit every five years. Humbug? Oh alright then, three.
Conversely the freshness brought by this recent frost makes my heart sing. Everything sparkles and the sharpness of the icy air brings such clarity. I love the cold air. Never more so than when folk light their open fires or wood burners around this time of year. The summer deprives me of the scent and, although I don’t have access to one myself, I can’t get enough of inhaling the delightful whiff of slightly damp burning pine. I’m one of those annoying people who suddenly halt on the pavement, just to niff up like the Bisto Kid, loitering by the homes of those with seasonally utilised chimneys during the circuitous route between my flat and the bus stop.

Not that I have been able to smell owt of late. To my absolute horror I was struck by some lurgy. The likes of which I typically shake off but not this time. I got turned over by a dose of the flu back in 2013 and have suffered no more than a mere 24 hour sniffle or sore throat before or since. Ergo, when physical illness strikes, I assume I’m nearing my end and wonder who might benefit most from my most valuable possessions. The smart telly and the man of the house. Meow! Drama queen? Not usually. But this is different and I make a very bad patient.

Speaking of drama I had the absolute privilege of seeing a Taste of Honey performed at the Lowry theatre. Shelagh Delaney was light years ahead of her 1950’s time attending to single parenthood, teenage pregnancy, and homosexuality. As for those expertly crafted lines it is little wonder Stretford poet turned bell end, Morrissey, plagiarised the script more than once. The film version popped up on TV shortly after my Lowry treat just to remind me of my girl crush on Jo played by Rita Tushingham.

This gorgeous drop of nostalgia via the Talking Pictures channel was sadly marred by the customary seasonal perfume and aftershave adverts which out freak themselves annually. Next time you have the misfortune to be exposed to one consider how smelling a certain way might compel you to, I don’t know, bury a necklace while staring wistfully into the distance. Bet they have a right laugh directing perfume ads.

Another objectionable stocking filler is a very shit book named The Secret authored by a Rhonda Bullshitting Byrne. I’m clearly late to the party which is themed I am the centre of the universe. To summarise, Confirmation Bias is sold as the law of attraction and the philosophical concept of metaphysics, under the guise of science, renders a stupefying read to sully the mind.

I would rather watch Bad Santa. The mere mention of the name of that film is enough to make me almost piss myself laughing. Oh aren’t I cultured I bring you theatre, book and film reviews by way of simply carrying on with myself. The state of me. Seriously though if you need cheering up stick Bad Santa on he’s immature and disgusting and it’s brilliant. A respectable amount of time has passed since I last curled up to BillyBob Thornton’s un PC chuckle fest.
Which I’ve decided goes well with mulled wine.
Which is also long overdue.

I’m not long back from a holiday so polarised from the last one that I may as well have been in another universe. To celebrate a very special occasion a crowd of us jetted off to a location that opposes the Hebrides to such a degree I was forced to reflect on my penchant for variety and ability to adapt. In a sizzling hot climate so scorchio I barely left the pool, or it’s side, this holiday can best be described as a week long BBQ and pool party. Not riotous in a Michael Barrymore sense, although frequent references to this were made, but thankfully not paralleled. The location is famous for its night clubs, so there were a couple of nights out on the town where there was dancing and laughing as well as lovely restaurants. They had fairy lights and candles, both of which I can’t get enough of, and reminded me how much I love tapas which I’d forgotten.

Sadly the memories and the tan are fading as I razz between the day job alongside visiting elderly relatives, highly amusing as they really really are, and I took the opportunity to rest easy today.

I have just caught what I hope isn’t the last of the sunshine and topped up my holiday tan. As much as I love a good long sunny walk, sunbathing doesn’t bore me. It affords the opportunity to acquire a set of white tits which I find novel and amusing. Pale puppies are surely a USP in today’s age of fake tan.

My cat-who-thinks-he’s-a-dog has spent today following me from bed to garden to sofa where he currently leans against me with a purr so thunderous it borders on aggressive! Surprised the tenants in the flat below haven’t knocked on. Likewise the frogs in my garden pond were surprisingly noisy creatures who caused a racket today. I’m there picking my home grown blueberries while hoping to avoid as asbo with this lot for company.

The early evening shade brought instant goose bumps and sent me indoors armed with an assortment of hand picked summer fruits. I’ve since shoved the lot into an upside down bowl lined with dirty white bread to make a summer pudding. I intend to drown it in pouring cream before trying to remember to chew properly instead of inhaling it. While it chills i’m enjoying the arse end of Sunday’s channel 5 back to back Colombo marathon. The fact is, had it been raining today, I’d have happily sat in and tanned the lot. I have a crush on Peter Falke, it’s true. I find the squint on him really attractive. It is the perfect compliment to the unassuming bumbling nature of the character. My favourite Columbo scenes are the ones during which Falk gradually shuffles towards the suspect, really slowly, manoeuvring though hordes of scantily clad revellers at a rammed pool party or nightclub. I have absolutely no idea why I find that so incredibly sexy.

It beats watching the news which I currently have a love hate relationship with. The footage inside parliament is petrifying yet amusing. If I’d not been in work this week I’d have been at serious risk of getting sucked into watching it live. Watching this lot is akin to picking a scab. I know I shouldn’t yet I can’t help it. I’m repulsed and yet strangely drawn towards keeping up with what is surely the highest levels of shameless parliamentary buffoonery to occur, not in history, but certainly in my life time.

Ugh it’s that Sunday feeling now. And it’s dark early. I’m grieving the summer. Never mind this pudding will help. Ready or not it is about to be devoured. Oh, I’ve just realised this blog is now a year old. Looking back I’m far from prolific with it. But then I’m not a prolific hooker, either.

The summer so far has been a bit special! I had my mind blown by a truly beautiful Scottish holiday during a recent return to the Hebrides. It’s where I get to inhale the cleanest freshest air I’ve ever known and rejoice in the sheer lack of other humans, the scarcity of shops, and pristine beaches resulting in holiday snaps that pass for Thailand. Incidentally the Thai tourist board did indeed at one time populate their brochures with photos of the Uists which are the next islands on my Hebridean bucket list. My favourite day of the year, so far, taught me how an inflatable canoe is the perfect vessel in which to get the hell into Shavasana and aimlessly drift between Coll and Tiree with an audience of curious chubby seals for company.

Batteries well and truly recharged I later made a holy show of myself at a Ceilidh. As one of a tiny minority of English people I was content to watch the lively dancing before being scooped up and vortexed into The Gay Gordons by a Galic speaking blonde goddess who was too pissed or polite to care about me treading on her like an ataxic goon. Not that anyone, least of all myself, cared.

This week has had me somewhat transfixed by the marathon of moon landing documentaries. With my nonchalance toward this event now curiously transmuted towards a no doubt temporary fixation, It’s fair to say I have surprised myself by getting so carried away by mooniversary fever! I’m especially taken by the extent to which it seemingly united humanity, although sadly that soon wore off too. Helen Sharman and Maggie Aderin-Pocock for the encore please.

Maintaining the current lunar theme I showed my face at The Blue Dot Festival at our lovely Jodrell Bank with its big fat LovelI telescope. I couldn’t manage both days so Kraftwerk were superseded by New Order on the Sabbath. I experienced a strong emotional reaction to ‘Your silent face’ and, not for the first time, there was something truly splendid about dancing in the rain. I’m now fantastically curious about what the rest of the summer brings…