Monday, 20 January 2014

Flaxen Saxon’s Sexual Health Special

As a chronic alcoholic I’m often accosted by complete strangers whilst walking home from the pub, and asked about sexual health. Generally I mumble incoherently and lurch off into the darkness…….

Sexually Transmitted Diseases (STD’s) affect and blight the lives of up to 10% of our youth today. The social stigma and shame should not be underestimated. Also, knob rot hurts like fuck.

Here is my cautionary tale…….

Imagine a young Mr Saxon, brash, wickedly handsome, with long blond hair a flow, out with his mates on a Saturday night at the Brum Locarno, circa 1974. All dressed in wide lapelled crushed velvet jackets and flairs; the fat birds were all over us.

Sometimes I’d leave at 3 o’clock in the morning covered in blood and snot. Sometimes I’d leave at 3 o’clock in the morning with a vaguely feminine form clamped to my arm. Once in the alley, at the back of the nightclub, I would distract my ‘date’ with a humorous impression of Keith ‘Cheggers’ Chegwin. An impression I was particularly adept at, whilst pissed.  In those days I always kept a small squeezee bottle full of Domestos discretely inserted down my trousers. Whilst distracted, I would give my intended a quick squirt round the ‘bowl and rim’. I’ve always believed that prophylaxis is better than cure.  Often I would add a couple of crushed Palma Violets just to show that I cared about feminine freshness.

 As I’m sure you will remember, Domestos used to proudly announce that it killed 99.9% of all known germs. Alas, on one occasion I became a statistical anomaly. I had inkling that something was amiss, when two weeks later I expressed a small amount of bland, serous fluid. I thought the best course was to ‘wait and see’. Three months later my fireman’s helmet had the look of a busted pomegranate and issued forth a foul smelling odour. As I lapsed in and out consciousness a moment of serene lucidity descended. My tumescent and weeping member popped up, winked and wiped a thick, yellow tear from its eye: ‘you dozy, fat blond twat, catch the number 127 bus from Dudley Castle to Birmingham General.’ And then it kissed me. I decided to take a premed of seven pints of Bank’s bitter before alighting in Corporation Street. Although late at night, my swollen member gave off a faint ethereal glow and I was mysteriously guided to Ward 19.

Dr Kebab took a long drag on his cigarette, squinted and softly exclaimed: ‘Mr 74/3879, that’s not clap, that’s applause.’  After a vigorous course of antibiotics and scouring, the end of my cock sloughed off. Thereafter I was as good as new. Chastened, I never performed Keith Chegwin impersonations again.     


Take home message: Substitute the Parma Violets with 2 parts battery acid and 1 part Vim. Oh yes, and always listen to your cock.   

4 comments:

  1. ".....Sexually Transmitted Diseases (STD’s) affect and blight the lives of up to 10% of our youth today. The social stigma and shame should not be underestimated. Also, knob rot hurts like fuck......."

    They are called "STI's" now - Sexually Transmitted Infections. Do keep up! Still, at least ya didn't call it VD or The Clap, or perhaps "An inconvenience of the Pox"

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  2. ".......Substitute the Parma Violets with 2 parts battery acid and 1 part Vim......"

    Parma Violets?
    Ha! I've had those, once. Vile, flavoured chalk nuggets. Had to wash 'em down with my pitcher of Pimm's No. 1 Cup having run out of my tipple of choice: 'la fée verte'.

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  3. If you turned up dressed like at one of my gigs in 1974, we'd have kicked your 'ed in! New romantics my arse! Old twats more like it!

    Probably explains why we never played Brum...

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  4. That Cheggars was a cunt, too...

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