The Quest for Brumagem: The next bit after the last bit

Elated after the conversation with the mysterious dark stranger I now
felt confident that one day I would venture to the tangible city of
Brumagem. I decided to take the stairs to my second floor maisonette
as the lifts, once again, were awash with assorted bodily fluids. On
gaining the second floor I spied the pulchritudinous and elfin form of
Edith 'Swan Neck.'

Edith: "Tell me Flaxen what is about me you find most attractive? Is
it my long graceful neck, my lustrous, flaming red hair or my milk
white, flawless skin? Tell me Flaxen, tell me.

Flaxen: "It's your tits."

Edith:  "Is it because, although small, they are perfectly formed and yet pert."

Flaxen: "I like your tits."

Edith: "Well then Flaxen pray tell, what is it about that brazen hussy
Brynhildr which attracts you so? For her breasts are large, globular
and hang heavy upon her torso."

Flaxen: "I like her tits."

Edith: "Hmmf, but does she let you push a stick in her moist pudenda
for 2 groats, like I do?"

Flaxen: "No, she charges 1 groat."

Flaxen's mother: "Flaxen, stop conversing with that Jutish tart and
come in and have your tea. It's your favourite, fish finger and
chips."

Edith:  "I will wait for you Flaxen. Don't forget your groats and stick."

The heady aroma of fish fingers assailed my nostrils and my thoughts
naturally turned to Edith's moist twat.

To be continued...

Holiday Snaps from Skegness

This one was taken during a recent sojourn to Skegness on the North
Sea.  It was fucking freezing. And this being August an all- so much
for global warming. If you look carefully you can see the consequence
through the contraction of my erector pili muscles. Look there! No,
you've missed it. The astute will have noticed my uncanny resemblance
to Hereward 'The Wake'. Anyway, this time I decided to take my wife,
Edith 'Swan Neck.' Sorry Brynhildr but as my concubine you will always
get second dibs.

Edith: "Flaxen, does this string of cockle shells accentuate the
graceful curl of my neck, add lustre to my flame red hair and
scintillate the emerald green of my eyes."

Flaxen: "Be quiet saucy wench, can't you see I'm a paddling in the
frigid waters of the North Sea. Bracing, like fuck it is. I've lost
all feeling in my toes. Loki told me that the 'water cure' would
alleviate the painful symptoms of my hallux rigidus. Mendacity Loki!
Great, big, fat, MENDACITY!"

Later we dried starfish on the beach. Partially dried starfish make
wonderfully aerodynamic Frisbees. Woden joined in and Eingar raced
around stopping occasionally to squat and deposit.

Woden: "Flaxen, I hope you are going to clean up after that wolf of
yours. It's wolf owners like you that give us murdering reivers a bad
name. And be careful, you'll have my eye out with one those starfish."

And there was you thinking that Woden lost his eye in the pursuit of
wisdom. Often, as in most things in life, the explanation is much more
prosaic.....

In the Great Hall: Part IV

Flaxen sat alone in the great hall brooding upon his great wounded testicles. His mind wandered to his beloved, violated Brynhildr, a lying in the midden pit a top of a thousand dead gypos. If only he hadn't thrown her in the pit, in the first place…….. Flaxen’s reverie was broken by a loud pounding on the great hall door. “By Thunnor, who can it be at this time?” Flaxen’s hand instinctively went to his trusty sword, ‘Arse, big fat arse biter.’ The door slowly creaked open to reveal the bedraggled, naked form of Brynhildr. Flaxen’s bowels stirred, then emptied.

Brynhildr: “Flaxen, have you missed me? The last I remember I was having a fit. Next I woke in the midden pit face down on a thousand dead gypos.”

Flaxen: “Who would have thought your past history of persistent petit mal seizures would be a presage of something more sinister.”

Brynhildr: “What is that awful smell?”

Flaxen: “What do you expect you have been lying on dead gypos for days.”

Brynhildr: “But the smell is emanating from you, my sweet.”

Flaxen: Er, sorry my beloved but the shock of seeing your beauteous form has acted as a powerful emetic.”

Brynhildr: Jeez, I've got an indomitable sore arse and fanny. Perhaps a long overdue thrust of your long staff will cure what ails me.”

Flaxen: “Er, yes my sweet. Though dare I venture to suggest that before our congress, you take a trip to the physic for a heavy douche with industrial strength Domestos and a light scouring of your love bucket with a wire brush?”

Brynhildr: “O Flaxen, you incurable romantic. I will do your bidding and be but a thrice. Wait for me Flaxen.” 

The great door of the great hall slammed shut behind the excited and probably infected Brynhildr.

Flaxen: “O fuck.”

To be continued….

 

       

Holiday Snaps

This was taken on a recent holiday to Offa's dyke. Brynhildr was with me and Eingar had gone to chase rabbits. As I recall, Brynhildr was perched atop the dyke shaking her pendulous breasts at the pesky Welsh in wanton defiance. That's my gel. She is so much more fun than Edith 'Swan neck'. "Oh Flaxen does this bauble compliment the delicate lines of my nape?" "Saucy red haired tart, get me more mead!" Fuck, here comes Loki. Quick Brynhildr, let us hide in the ditch.

And before you ask, Offa's dyke is fine. She's looking radiant these days, she really is.

In the Great Hall: Part III

In the Great Hall Flaxen sat gingerly upon the feasting chair. His bloodied scrotum bearing the bite marks of a thousand whippets. An ice pack did  balance  precariously on his great testicles and moved rhythmically with each throb of his wounded bollocks.  His son, Althelstan ‘The Unsteady’ and the House Carls stood in resplendent array surrounding their great Jarl taking care not to get too close to his testicles, which were very tender, by the way.

Flaxen Saxon: “We have won a great victory today my warriors and the gypo dead lie ten deep around the midden pit. It will be a long time before the gypo hordes dare land their long caravans on Tipton shore…”  

Athelstan: My father, do I have your permission to take my leave. My roots need tender ministrations and I’m afraid they may be irreparably damaged. Also carrying your war board has chafed my thighs something awful and chipped the varnish on my nails even unto the cuticle. May I suggest you invest in Jutish shields? Jutish shields are covered with the finest kid leather and come in a range of rich, pastel shades.”

Flaxen Saxon: “Go, and pick up some bread and milk on your way back.”

Harold ‘The Herald’: My lord, what is to be done with the body of your beloved Brynhildr after the foul violation of her lifeless body in the midden pit by 20,000 gypos.  

Flaxen Saxon: Alas, her chalice no longer overflows but fills several flagons. Place the gypos in the midden pit and position the cherished, ravished body of Brynhildr on top as befits her station.”

Harold ‘The Herald’: And what is to be done with the gypo long caravans my lord.”

Flaxen Saxon: “Strip them of their baubles and trinkets, except for the nodding dog ornaments on the dashboards. Don’t bother looking for tax discs, for you will find none there. Then drag the long caravans to the fields of the Jutes. When they wake in the morn they will be sorely miffed and will think the gypo hordes have descended. Scatter human and dog excrement throughout and place burned out vehicles willy nilly. This will give the illusion of authenticity and will piss off the Jutes mightily. That will teach them for not returning my lawnmower they borrowed.    

To be continued… 

More shit poetry

The Funeral Party

White is his features,

Cold is his fingers,

Lying in a box in funeral attire dressed.

Gone is the laughter,

Here is the sadness,

Offer condolence to a widow distressed.

Bear the man slowly,

Lift the man gently,

Take him to a place where he may rest.

Short was his passing,

Long is his resting,

Sing out his praises and tell it in jest.

Warm to his memory,

Mention him fondly,

And say all this about a man you detest.

The Quest: the next bit

During my 16^th summer I frequented the taverns and tapas bars which bejewelled the Tipton shore like a pearl necklace on a whore’s breast. One fateful evening I entered the ‘Rhino and Crippled Nun.’ I surveyed the denizens therein with a critical eye born of wanton abandon. My gaze fixed upon an old sailor. His visage was rubicund, a parrot perched precariously on his one good shoulder and a patch covered the place where his once glistening nose had been. No I thought, not him; too cliché. My bright blue eyes moved on, finally alighting on a dark cowled form in the shadows. His eyes burned as incandescent coals and his bony fingers beckoned………

“What is your name O fair one?”

“They call me Flaxen of ‘The Council Estate’.”

“The estate. I have not ventured there many a long day. Tell me, do the lifts still smell of stale piss, fags and cheap liquor?

“Yes, especially on the morn after giro day.”

“Flaxen, I have heard of your quest to find the fabled city of Brumagem.”

My eyes widened and my sphincter tightened but not before a low strangled phweoooot escaped from my nether breeches.

“Pray tell dark one. Is the city just a figment of a fevered imagination?”

The stranger coughed and gagged and the coal fed eyes blazed fiercely for a moment with an ethereal green glow.

“Shit on a stick, Flaxen you need to add more fibre to your diet and perhaps a lump of charcoal. Wheeze, gasp. It exists. I have never been there myself. Although the Elven whisper of a long boat, also known as the 127 bus, which leaves Tipton High Street (opposite Mr Khan’s select purveyor of premium Halal meats) and sails to Corporation Street in Brumagem.”

A strange feeling effused my groin and once again a low growl oozed from my posterior. “Parp, toot, nwelch. Blaart.”

“Go now! Please go!

Exalted and aflame, I stood and prepared to leave but not before thanking the dark stranger. As I spun upon my heel I couldn't help notice that the tavern had emptied and a mysterious low pall of mist hung suspended in the air. A portend of things to come, perhaps? Only time will tell……  

The mysterious stranger watched intently as the tall, broad shouldered and surprising pert buttocked youth left the tavern. The cowl slipped away revealing the swart countenance of Loki.

Loki (for it is he):  “Fuck, that last fart has taken all the enamel off my teeth.”   

To be continued….

   

        

A Truly Happy Outcome

Mr Rabbit went to sea in a boat fashioned from lettuce. As the shark nibbled in, the rabbit nibbled out and the resultant hole was truly a joint effort. "Now Mr Rabbit" said the shark. "Surely you will add meat to my greens." "Oh good" said the rabbit. "At least I wont drown, I've always had a fearful dread of that." And so the shark had his meat with his greens and the rabbit did not drown- surely a happy outcome for both.

Doggerel written on the demise of Harold Camping 15th December 2013

You made your predictions quite categorical,

Date and year were virtually undeniable.

Except your pontifications were completely unreliable,

And your followers were left bewildered, high and dryable.

Background and commentary: Harold Camping was an American evangelist who predicted the imminent destruction of the world following the return of Jesus Christ in May 2011. He was wrong. He attracted much money and folk who are liable to follow this sort of thing.

Apocalypse, not now

Harold is not the only ‘predictor of doom.’ According to the usual bunch of tofu eating, crystal healing, greeny, liberal, pseudo- scientific tosspots the Maya had a few dark predictions of their own. For those ignorant bastards who can’t be arsed to google them, here is the only thing you need to know about the Maya- they invented colour tele.

Not only did they extend our televisual pleasure they also had a rather elaborate and cyclical calendar. And because they couldn’t be bothered to extend said calendar beyond December 2012 ‘da loonies’ have taken it as a sign that the world was about end. You have got to ask why anyone would want to extend their calendar so far into the future, anyway. Perhaps they would have better employed their time fighting the Conquistadors. How much credence do we give to a civilisation which couldn't foresee their own demise in the 16^th century and yet produce a calendar that petered out five centuries later? It seems a pity that they didn't harness this all seeing facility and focus their penetrating gaze on their own fate.

Of course, end of the world predictions are nothing new. A Jew two thousand years ago predicted that the world was about to end. But then he got nailed to a piece of wood. Thirty years later, Paul of Tarsus was echoing his master’s strident views. But the world continued to turn.

Jehovah’s witnesses are also fond of the odd prediction. When not receiving blood transfusions they are making some uncannily untrue prophecies. Indeed, as I write, they are collectively and fervently demanding an end to the present system of things. Unlike Harold, there is no set date, but the smug bastards believe it to be soon. They haven’t always been so coy and imprecise. The years 1914 and 1975 were previous portends of our doom. Of course, the JW’s are a particularly strange bunch and like a lot of other fundamental Christian sects deny the theory of evolution and consider the earth to be a little over 6000 years old. In the face of overwhelming evidence they take comfort and counsel in their stultifying religious dogma.  

Even Nostradamus, the 16^th century seer, had something to say on the subject. His quatrains have always appeared dense, obscure and downright unintelligible. Read into them what you will. Anyhow, for those who take note of this blather, here is the relevant passage: “When the earth is gripped by corrupt politicians and a white haired man defiles no more, there will come a tribulation culminating in the world’s end on the 21^st February, 2014.” What can all this mean? I think the reference to the ‘white haired man’ can only be the Mandela. I will leave the Nostradamus experts to ponder this murky passage and await further enlightenment.

As the 20^th century came to a close many foresaw that the computers inability to cope with an extra digit would result in Armageddon. Planes would fall from the sky and our digital watches would stop. At least this augur had a faint whiff of plausibility. A lot of IT consultancies made obscene amounts of money and therefore the world did not end after all.

I am no seer, but I do have a prediction for the end of the year. I am confident that I will still be around to summon in 2015, at midnight December 31 2014. Probably I will be dead drunk, but still very much alive. The world will not have stopped spinning in fact it will be spinning much faster, at least to my eyes.

            

Flaxen Saxon’s Inventions and Shit: Part I

The Scrotometer

It has been incumbent upon myself to invent a novel devise for the measurement of testicular movement in all three planes.

This invention was suggested to me after taking a hot bath, and noting while lying naked on the bed, the random, rapid and independent movement of my testicular tissue, without the intervention of external forces. I have been researching this phenomenon for many years and have come to the sound empirical conclusion that this represents normal scrotal behaviour after a thermal challenge. Hence, I have invented, the ‘Scrotometer.’ This device allows quantitative and objective measurement of scrotal activity. This is a scientific instrument that anyone can make in their home and should be a ‘must have item’ in every man’s bath room cabinet.

The Technical bit………

After a leisurely bath, simply take a sterile wooden skewer and insert into the posterior portion of the scrotal sac, taking care to avoid sensitive testicular tissue. Please note, a metal skewer will not do as the weight detracts from the instrument’s sensitivity. Place a child’s crayon on the non-testicular end of the skewer. Feel free to choose a coloured crayon of your choice. I like to use a mauve crayon as it contrasts nicely with the blend of seminal fluid and blood. Try to avoid an erection during the process. Place a piece of card or stiff paper next to the crayon. Your palpitating scrotum will do the rest. Consequent renditions make a suitable counterpoise for your living room décor or failing that you can stack them adroitly upon your coffee table.

Next week I’ll will demonstrate my invention for the measurement of anal moistness.  

   

In the Great Hall: Part II

Flaxen slumps in his feasting chair, eyes glazed and old. The night had been long, the mead had flowed like wine. Comely maids had danced for their Lord and had provided a happy ending (extra 12 groats: ‘You pay now, pay now’). Ominous dark stains bespattered his leather breaches (20 groats at Marks and Spencers) and the smell of ripe testicles assailed his nostrils. A thegn (thegn I actually) interrupts his Jarl’s reverie…......  

Thegn I: “Calamitous news, My Lord. The Gypos have landed their long caravans on Tipton shore. They have formed a palisade of milk churns and dead whippets around the midden pit.”

Flaxen Saxon (for it is he): “Raise the levies. Call to arms my House Carls, my thegns and bondsmen. Bring me my stoutest chainmail and my trusty seacx, ‘Arse, Big Fat Arse, Biter.”

Thegn I:”As you command, my Lord.”

Flaxen Saxon: “Where is my warrior son Athelstan?”

Thegn II (Thegn I has gone to do his master’s bidding, remember?): “My Lord, Athelstan is having his roots done and blond highlights put in his hair down at….”  

Flaxen Saxon: “WHAT, I THOUGHT HE WAS A NATURAL BLOND!”

Thegn II: "Undoubtedly he is my Lord, but this cold weather we have been having lately plays sore havoc with your natural tones. He just wanted to capture that ‘height of summer’ look.”   

Flaxen Saxon: "Thegn II, send a bondsman to Athelstan, tell him to don his finest byrnie. Tell him this time, not the one with the amethyst sequins! I don’t care if it matches his eyes.”

The mists  gather in the Great Hall and Eingar, Flaxen’s trusty wolf howls disconsolately. A form slowly coalesces about the great Jarl and Loki appears at Flaxen’s side.  

Loki: “Flaxen, will you burn the Gypos and their long caravans, will you?”

Flaxen Saxon:  “What is it with you Loki and the burning? Burn this, burn that. Haven’t you ever considered just a light scalding?”

Loki: “You are right of course, Flaxen. You have Woden’s wisdom and eye.”   

Flaxen Saxon: “Begone foul wraith, begone!

Loki retreats into the shadows to wait a more propitious time…

Gerhard (The leader of the House Carls): “Your host awaits, my Jarl.”

Flaxen Saxon: “And my son, Athelstan?”

Gerhard: “He will stand at your side, my Jarl, as your shield bearer. Although I fear he is still replete with tin foil strips in his hair.”

Flaxen Saxon: "Good! It will protect him from alien, anal probing (allegedly) and tell him not to go berserk this time. Frankly, it’s embarrassing.”

To be continued….

What the fuck is a Venn diagram?

The Quest

The Saga of Flaxen Saxon and the Quest for fabled ‘Brumagem’

As a boy I would visit the vast mud flats of the Tipton foreshore, my eyes squinting to far horizons. I heard wondrous stories of what lay beyond; the netherworld. The elders would tell of a strange mystical land, ‘Brumagem.’ A mystic city indeed inhabited by strange folk, bedecked in hoop earrings and white lightening (50p a can at Valuesmart liquor emporium). They whispered darkly of streets paved with dog shit. Poundland prospered and benefits were paid every second Thursday, by giro. Dare this land exist? I longed for a longboat to take me there. Foolish, mad delirium seized my lithe, fulsome and nipple rouged body. Afterward, spent, I would throw back my head and howl. I knew that if this land existed I would find it. I would bind its inhabitants to my will and fill their comely wenches with my seed.  Turning to the wind I swore an oath by Woden’s wisdom that this would be my life’s quest……    The setting sun and the returning tide bid me to leave. As the used condoms lapped against my Ugg boots, I knew my destiny, my purpose. With fervent hope and sustained ardour I returned to my council maisonette to feast on fish fingers and chips.

The saga continues……….

A concerned reader writes

Dear Flaxen Saxon, my husband and I are devoutly religious. However, we are experiencing deep spiritual differences which are proving irreconcilable. I subscribe to orthodox doctrine which considers that God and Christ are equal, of the same substance, but distinct. Whilst my husband adheres to the heretical view that Christ was created by God and is consequently not equal. My argument that this matter was resolved at the Ecumenical Council of Nicaea in 325 AD falls on deaf ears. I approached my Pastor and he suggested that I should contact you for spiritual enlightenment.

I await your pronouncement on this matter in the sure knowledge that your judgement will be guided by the gentle hand of Christ.

Christian in a Quandary

 

Dear Christian in a Quandary. Yes, subtle differences in religious dogma can cause schism in the marital home. Have you tried kinky sex? Mrs Saxon often dresses as a ‘naughty nun’ and beats me to a frenzy with a rod while I’m dressed in the full regalia of the Bishop of Dudley, complete with mitre and string vest; works for us. May I suggest you invest in ‘his’ and ‘hers’ butt plugs. Tesco’s have an impressive selection in the ‘Anal Play’ isle, next to the Panadol. There is something for every sphincter; don’t forget to rotate.

                                          Jism in the Schism…….

Those nitpicking religious controversies just melt away when you’ve got foreign objects jammed up your arse. Might be a good idea to splash out and hire a prostitute. I often visit the local whores for a little light refreshment and buggery. Unfortunately I have to pay a little extra as I have a tendency to bite during the vinegar strokes. Perhaps you could persuade this Christ fellow to join in or at least offer his gentle guiding hand with the lube.   

The Family Motto

In the Great Hall

Athelstan ‘The Unsteady': “Father when you die who will inherit your land, wealth and chattels.”

FS: “It will be divided amongst my children in equal parts.”

Athelstan ‘The Unsteady': “What, even to your bastards?”

FS: “No, my son. The bastards have my strength and wits, except for Adric, ‘The Adled’, and Geric the dwarf, and Fenhir ‘The Homosexual’, and….

Athelstan ‘The Unsteady': “Father! By Woden’s single eye, I get the gist, already.”

Hroslinda: “Father, my dowry demands I get more than my brother. And what is too be done with your mistress, Brynhildr”

Athelstan: “Father, intervene!”

FS: “I dispense my wisdom as such. Children, my wealth will be apportioned according to this general formulae : x(n-3)ⁿ /k-a. Where x equals the hectares of land; a, bushels of wheat; k, the number of blond male children and n the extent of my scrotal sac stretched upon a loom (in cm). Note my scrotal sac intervenes twice.  Now go hence and do sum (geddit?) math. As for Brynhildr she has been the receptacle of my seed long enough. This chalice overflows. Toss her into the midden pit. I will clean it on the morrow! Athelstan, my tallest, strongest and blondeth of children. Go kill me some screilings according to your nature. Hroslinda, more mead, this one grows cold.”  

Athelstan: “Your thegn and son will do you bidding, my Jarl.”

Hroslinda: “Dad, sometimes you can be a total cunt, you really can.”

To be continued…..

The Iconic T34 Owners club......

Tanks are cool, and you know it. The smell of cordite, the wind in your hair. The endless vista of burning corn…. Ammunition for the 85mm is not cheap but plentiful with the right contacts. I've souped up my T34 and can do 40mph on a good day. I fervently hope that the ‘powers’ (or at least the highways commission) widen the roads and strengthen the bridges. As for those wanky ‘Sunday drivers.’ It is true to say that some have been castigated on my watch. But who’s going to stop me? Not the cops in their Pandas. I drive a fucking tank, after all.

Flaxen's poem of the day

Don't you twats tell me that it is anachronistic to call it 'CD ROM.' Piss orf. DVD player don't scan as well and ruins the metre of my insightful indictment of modern living. This poem stands on it's own merit.

'What is that you are insinuating in my ear Loki? You want me to burn stuff. Not today Loki, I have the midden pit to sort out.' 

 Don't bugger about with my muse! 

CD ROM

Technology rattles in this house,

Pentium wisdom led by a blinded mouse.

Nerveless body slumps in awe,

At a plastic finished, winking, steaming, crackling whore.

Where’s my book? Where’s my pen?

Not required in this den.

Look to modem and whirring drive,

Supplies all your needs for your passive life.

No need to think, no need to move,

Simple pleasures need not intrude.

Insinuate chips of silicon lead:

In your guts; inside your head.

What’s the time? What’s for tea?

I don’t know, don’t bugger with me!

Consider answers, one by one,

Come tripping effortlessly from a CD ROM.

Today, I writ large.

Conundrum of the Day

Question: what is the difference between zoophilia and bestiality?

Answer: consent.

I Hate Voluminous Handbags

My wife forgot her phone the other day. As she rummaged through her large bag full of things, I asked, ‘Are you sure?’ ‘I’ll tell you in a minute,’ she said and returned to the rummaging. I hate that bag. I also own a mobile phone. I’m staring at it now. I’m not sure of the model, although it has Samsung written on it and I’m staring at a photo of my granddaughter. Cute: I mean the phone, not my granddaughter.

No one phones me and I phone no one. It’s my ‘emergency phone’. It is to be used when I break down and when the nearest house won’t let me in to use their phone. But I drive a Japanese car and it never breaks down. For a phone I never use I’m astonished by how frequently it needs charging.

I went to a conference recently with my phone. Everything was fine until it came time to call the missus about the dainty looking chocolate on the pillow. This time I stared more intently. How does that nice Mr Dynamo do it? I hate that phone. Eventually, I decided I needed help- I did think of phoning my wife.  I phoned my boss in the adjacent room using the room phone, of course. I told him that I needed his help on a technical matter. Being the boss, he came round after a suitably long interval. After explaining my problem he passed his hand over the phone (no, he’s not Dynamo) and it started to dial. Afterwards, he looked at me with a ‘look’. ‘Flaxen’ (not my real name), he said, ‘you’re really not very tightly wrapped, are you?’ Usually he says, ‘I’m a fish short of a lawnmower.’ At least he didn’t say, ‘I’ve no idea why I keep you on.’  I suspect it was the clean, crisp, alpine air of Queenstown that had fogged his brain and also on the fact that I’ve been working with him for eight years and he knows full well why he pays me. And I’m grateful for that, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to buy infernal devices that I can’t, and never, use. Makes you think how we managed without the little buggers (mobile phones that is) in times past, doesn’t it?  By the way, if you are asking, I don’t work in IT.    

Poetry corner:

What a strange bird the frog is,
When it sits, it stands almost,
When it stands, it sits almost.
Got no fucking wings either.

I'm a Stupid Bastard

IQ tests are intriguing. I've always fared badly on conventional tests. At primary school I was designated last but one according to the ‘star system.’ Every time a kid did well they got a star on a chart which was placed prominently on the wall. Yes they did that in the sixties. I had two stars. To place that in perspective, Leslie Green had 52 stars (I fancied her rotten) and David Manning had one. Now David Manning was a bit of a ‘spakker.’ Thinking back, poor David was intellectually challenged. Poor bastard, he really had no chance. I failed my 11 plus and Leslie passed. I went to a sink Secondary Modern in the Black County, West Mids. They put me in the third set for maths, English and Science. By year two I’d worked my way to the fourth set. I was bumping along at the bottom. My form teacher suggested ‘I would be better served by being placed in the remedial class  Note the quotes that are not there. I have a mind for remembering this sort of shit. Mr Masters you are a cunt, but long dead, I’m sure.  Now the remedial class is not a place you want to go unless forced. I had an interview with the Headmaster. It would be down to his wisdom whether I would be placed with the unteachable. I told Mr Evans that I didn't want to go with the mongers cos I had a bad chest and that the smoke would make it worse. The thick fug of smoke in class was a constant reminder that these kids were way past the fourth set. Luckily for me Mr Evans decided to send me to the monger class after all. Thank you Mr Evans, you did me a service. And yes I've checked, Mr Evans is long, long dead.      

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.   

Thought of the Day

I am absolutely certain that Madeline Mccann was abducted by aliens. All the evidence points to this. Whether or not they were paedophiles is yet another unresolved question. I have been anally probed by aliens on numerous occasions and care for it not at all. 'Please Mr Alien peel me a banana, daylight come and I wanna go home.' What I really wanted to say is: stop shoving stuff up my botty (arse, big fat arse) you Alien deviants.' Where is my tin foil hat when I need it.     

Sane, at Last......

A psychiatrist writes: Mr Saxon is a chronic alcoholic with a history of bizarre and erratic behaviour. After attending the prestigious academy: ‘Tipton Secondary Modern’, he graduated with a CSE in difficult sums and geography (joint honours). After many years of telling his neighbours: ‘I know where you live’ he now works at the local mental institution where he is an inmate. His unique combination of talents, qualifications and experience leaves him eminently qualified to offer sage advice to all the weird fuckwits out there.