Tuesday, 29 April 2008

Body Parts

How many times do you still hear a man assert he is a boob, butt or leg man?

While I can understand individual preferences for certain body parts, it still seems a strange concept to label oneself in such limiting and faintly nonsensical terms.

"I'm a leg man". Well, great. I have legs. Does that mean I'm in the running? (Heh. Did you see what I did there?)

"I'm a boob man, myself". What? You're attracted to an obvious sexual allure like my bosom? Hurrah, evolution works!

What would be truly interesting would be men who announced their unusual, quirky preferences. "I'm a slight peachy down on the upper lip man" or "I'm a earlobe kind of guy".

Interestingly enough, women are unlikely to claim to be a butt gal or a willy woman.

Sunday, 27 April 2008

Pubic Ponderings

A shaven haven is a high maintenance minge. Once you start it is a demanding task. You have to go through the whole grooming routine every other day or so or have a chuff you can strike matches on.

I did try it for a while. But, fuckola, it's not easy, is it? I mean, it's not exactly an easy area to shave. It's like trying to mow the lawn without leaving the house. You have to position yourself awkwardly and you'll miss quite a bit.

Frankly, I have been unimpressed with the results even when I have persevered in my endeavours. It looks good for about 10 minutes, then the stubble reappears, the itching starts and ingrown hairs develop. This happens whatever technique is used, no matter how much I exfoliate and despite the various creams and lotions I slather on. It is not a good look.

Those who are not a fan of the denuded cunt often cite the fact that it is pandering to an unconscious desire to look uncomfortably young. I wouldn't go quite that far. In my experience it bears far more resemblance to the face of acne-ridden pubescent. Quite how that is preferable to a big old hairy muff beats me, so I have tossed the razor into the bin.

How are you supposed to reach all the hair around your arse anyway?

Saturday, 26 April 2008


His voice is my undoing
Leaves me powerless to fight
Like Samson with a haircut
Superman with Kryptonite

His tongue laps my defences
Overwhelms me and I kneel
I listen and surrender
This is my Achilles Heel

Thursday, 24 April 2008

Everybody Needs a Bosom

There is much truth in the lyrics from Cornershop's "Brimful of Asha":

Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow Everybody needs a bosom

There is the aesthetic appeal of a bosom, of course. From the small and pert to the big and bouncy, all bosoms are pleasing to the eye.

Breasts have great sexual allure and yet even when this factor isn't present they still hold an undeniable power over men and women alike. A big, bosomy hug is immensely soothing. Resting your head upon a perfumed pillow of decolletage is the next best thing to being a babe in arms again, absolved, momentarily, of responsibilities, comforted, safe, loved.

Breasts are inherently tactile. Obviously my husband has enjoyed many happy hours putting his head between mine and going "blubble blubble blubble". Yet my gay friends can't resist my bosoms either. There is no sauciness involved, they just seem to find them fascinating. They take an uninhibited childlike delight in touching them, cuddling up to them and seeing how many flowers/twiglets/feathers/crackers they can get down my cleavage before I smack them.

I, on the other hand, have no corresponding fascination with, or desire to grope, their wobbly bits.

Nobody needs a scrotum for a pillow.

Wednesday, 23 April 2008

Literary Luka

The delightful and alluring Ms R has tagged me for a meme. Normally I ignore memes, but this one proves I do own a book with more words than pictures, dammit. So I'm doing it.


The rules:

1. Pick up the nearest book.

To be honest, the nearest book would be the Yellow Pages, but I thought that would prove a tad on the tedious side. I also ignored the colouring book, Puzzler and Insects and Wildlife of the British Countryside.

There is one book, however, that always remains within easy reach, on my desk.

2. Open to page 123.

Okey Dokey.

3. Find the fifth sentence.

"Oh," said Sir Clifford.

4. Post the next three sentences.

"Here Mellors, this will make you feel better, have a pull at this," and passed him his brandy flask.

Mellors pulled the flask. "I'm pulling it, Sir Clifford, but nothing's happening."

5. Tag five people

I tag Bittersweet, Jasmine, Grundy, Helga and Ro.

I think the blogosphere is just gagging to know whether you own a book that has a page 123.

Monday, 21 April 2008

Blog Drama Club

The first rule of Blog Drama Club is that we do not talk about Blog Drama Club. Deny everything. If asked, assert "I don't do Blog Drama", despite all evidence to the contrary.

The second rule of Blog Drama Club is that you must choose a side. This is fun and makes everything feel more West Side Story-ish. Once you are in your chosen posse, circle or gang you must be sure never to engage the enemy in anything other than drive-by cheap shots in comments boxes. The more commonly accepted method is to ignore your enemy, pointedly, while talking about them loudly in an adjacent comment. Remember, it's talking about, not talking to. If you fall into the trap of actually engaging in reasonable discourse you run the risk of peace breaking out and where will all the Blog Drama be then?

The third rule of Blog Drama Club is to claim everything and anything you see as your own personal challenge and torment. It doesn't matter if it's a post about stamp collecting or rare weevils of European orchards, claim it was written to get at you - you once licked a stamp, after all, and are they implying you fuck weevils, just because you've eaten fruit? - and make sure your gang are copied in so the drive-bys can begin.

The fourth rule of Blog Drama Club is to ask your posse, circle or gang if you have missed out any rules they would like to see applied to Blog Drama Club.

So, have I missed anything?

Friday, 18 April 2008

I Can Cure You

Would you like me to perform an online medical?

I am a fully qualified blog nurse and can diagnose exactly what is wrong with you just from what you post online.

When I peruse your pixels I can tell what essential elements you are lacking, whether you are over indulging in some areas, and am able to tailor a blogging diet and exercise regime specifically for your needs.

Just pop your clothes off and hop up onto the couch.

Try to relax.

Now, you may feel a bit of a prick.

And now, a short poem, in lieu of a lollipop.

Think of me as the nurse who makes you feel worse
Be my patient
Be patient
Be well.

Thursday, 17 April 2008

Red Shoes, No Knickers

There was a certain degree of pointing and laughing when I began posting real HNTs as opposed to my spoof HMTs of the past.

"Oh, you hypocrite, Luka," came the cry. "You poured scorn on HNT, and now look at you."

And I look back at my HMTs and, you know, I can't see any scorn at all. Lots of silliness, but no scorn.

Still, I can see the delicious irony in my teasing those who post pictures of their arse and my current habit of waggling my bits in front of the camera phone on a Wednesday night.

See, the thing is, beneath my cynical exterior there lies a brazen harlot, eager to post pictures of her own arse, if only her arms were long enough to get the camera into the necessary orbit around her moon.

I am exposed.

The title of this post derives from a charming old saying which seems wildly appropriate under the circumstances.

Tuesday, 15 April 2008

Fair Comment

Blogging interactions are similar to real life interactions, in that the better you know a person the freer you feel to do away with the social niceties and say what you think.

If, for example, you were at a party and a complete stranger came along and started boring you about, oh, let's say trains, you might make a few polite noises, maybe ask a couple of questions and generally fake an interest so as not to cause offence while surreptitiously scanning the room for an escape route. If it happened to be a close friend or family member you would be far more likely to roll your eyes and say "oh god, not trains again, can't we talk about something else for five minutes?"

As I work my way through the morass of blogs, a similar pattern can be observed. When people don't really know the person behind the blog they leave friendly, harmless comments. (Unless they are trolls, of course, in which case they leave very rude comments indeed). The sort of comment you can't possibly take offence at. "You're so funny" or "Lovely pic!"

You can spot who knows who behind the scenes from the banter in the comments box. In-jokes appear. Good natured teasing. It is even possible to spot who is shagging who behind the scenes from the laughably inept "smokescreen" comments lovers leave for each other. "Oh ho ho, I bet you're just the type of naughty girl who would stick a cucumber up her lover's arse. What a very lucky chap your man must be!" I read these types of comments and think "why not just wee all over her blog and have done with it?"

So, if I turn up on your blog and disagree with you, if you find me sitting in your comments box, sipping wine and spouting forth on all that is wrong with the world, giving my cynical and unpopular opinions, take it as a compliment. It means I think you are probably intelligent and likeable enough to handle a comment of substance and mature enough to relish something less bland and meaningless than I offer to party bores.

Sunday, 13 April 2008

Lucre for Luka

Here is what I'm like: fantastic, obviously, and superior to drab, lesser mortals in just about every way.

I am stubborn, strong willed, intensely private and terribly proud. Unfortunately my strong willed, stubbornly proud, yet strangely not smug at all, spirit has led me to run up a bit of a tab at Mr McNobby's corner shop. I'm far too stubborn and proud to ask my friends to lend me money, and the bank won't give me any, because I'll only spend it all on pork pies and scratch cards again. Fortunately my blogging chums are rallying round and are busy setting up a paypal button to go on my blog. I don't think anyone should have to pay for the privilege of reading my barbs or, indeed, to help me finance my stubbornly proud bohemian lifestyle, but I'll take the cash anyway.

In the meantime, do take a look at my friends blogs. The soft hearted lot have launched an appeal for me. They know I am too proud and strong willed to do so myself. It's called "Butts for Bucks! Ass for Cash!" and the premise is that when we reach the £25 mark they will all post pictures of their arses. It's an incentive. No, really it is. I know you've seen their bits before, for free, every HNT, but this will be different. It'll be from a new angle. Or something. Oh, just click the damn button.

Appeal Update: so far we've raised 3 foreign coins, a button and a bottle top! That's fantastic! I am deeply moved by the generosity of my fellow bloggers and would like to reiterate that it is all for a very good cause and not just to buy pork pies and scratch cards.

Friday, 11 April 2008

Busy Busy Busy

No time for trivialities, no time to make for you
I haven't had a minute to myself
No time to switch my mobile on, no time to make a call
I'll have to leave you up there on the shelf

No room for non necessities, no room to spare for you
My life's as packed as sardines in a tin
No room for extra company, no room to turn around
Perhaps tomorrow I might squeeze you in

No need to feel rejected, there's no need to worry so
You're in a queue, you've just been put on hold
No need to feel so insecure, no need to give me grief
Your misery is getting kind of old

No wait, this isn't what I want! No wait, some patience, please
I didn't mean that you should go away
No wait, it's just time management, it's just priorities
I'll reward you for your fortitude one day!

(Oh... She's gone.)

Thursday, 10 April 2008

Have No Tights - HNT

Or: Why Tall Girls Wear Stockings

I can reach the last remaining box on the top shelf
I can change a bulb without a chair
I can see what's happening at the front of any crowd
I can dust the ceiling with my hair

I can wear high spiked heels and become an Amazon
I can be found dancing breast to cheek
But I can't get the gusset of most tights beyond my knees
A low slung crotch doesn't look that chic

Monday, 7 April 2008


I sipped my drink and stood by the fire, enjoying the heat on this cold night. I hadn't seen most of the crowd for a good few months so there was much catching up to be done.

"So, how are you?"

"In a bit of pain, actually. I saw the physio earlier and - "

"Oooh, do you need a massage?"

"No. So, I saw the physio and - "

He ran his hand up my thigh and grabbed my arse.

How can I adequately convey the fury I felt at this juncture? I could see little fireworks of red light exploding, and they weren't sparks from the fire.

Firstly, I hurt. I am in pain. I don't want a "massage" from anyone (though a clumsy squeeze from thick sausage-like fingers does not count as a massage in my book) let alone from some bloated, red-faced, lecherous beer swilling, inconsiderate cunt.

Secondly, I hate the fact that he obviously didn't give a flying fuck about how I was or how I felt, he just wanted to cop a feel.

Thirdly, how dare he think he could touch me? Me!

A wounded bear is a dangerous animal.

Luckily I had my physiotherapist's card to hand so I could pass on the number.

Saturday, 5 April 2008

Body and Soul

I lay on my front, arms folded just above my head, my shirt pulled up just enough for me to be able to feel the air upon my bare back.

"I'm going to move down to your buttocks now."

"All right."

"How's that?"

"A bit sore."

The physiotherapist made a sympathetic noise yet continued hurting me nonetheless. It's her job.

"All right, I'm going to ask you to turn back over now, ok?"

"Ok, but I am going to make sad little noises while I do so."

And I did, as it hurts a great deal to move in certain ways at the moment. "I very much want to swear," I told her. "But I am aware there are other people beyond the curtain."

She smiled. I needed her approval. I felt I was being a brave soldier and displaying amazing powers of restraint by not shouting "Fuck! Oh bastardly, cunting fuck!" and crying a bit. I really wanted that to be acknowledged.

She fetched a heat pad and left me lying on it for a few minutes. I drifted off into almost sleep. As I lay there, in my post-traumatic haze, I realised that my morning's worries were pointless. I'd been mulling over the information that certain unspecified people had certain unspecified gripes with certain unspecified actions of mine. Why did I waste even a second of my time wrestling with that one? There is absolutely nothing I can do about such vaguaries.

(Has anyone else been on the receiving end of this one? Had an attempt to inflict worries and self-doubt upon them under the guise of well-meaning advice/friendship/concern? What are you supposed to do with that information, if you have no idea what it's about?

I get this a lot: "It's not just me there are others who feel the same way."

"Who?" I will ask.

"I can't say."

Well, what am I supposed to do about it then?)

I have to say, it has its faults, but God Bless the NHS. My physiotherapy session yesterday was good for my body and mind. I go back again next week. I think in a month or so I will be on a whole other plane of enlightenment and I'll be able to limbo dance again.

Thursday, 3 April 2008

Hair Not There - HNT

It gets in his face and tickles his nose when I turn over in bed. I hear his "pffffft"s as he tries to puff my tresses away.

It is invasive, my hair. It gets in his mouth, and mine, as we kiss. It obscures my face, and his view, when I lower my head and trail my tongue down his body. It collects crumbs, twigs and small creatures with an efficiency to rival that of my cleavage.

It takes forever to wash, longer to dry, and I never brush it. It is best to let it run wild and free, untamed by styling aids. It writhes, Medusa-like, in thick coils and breaks combs, snaps elastic bands and trashes any hair accessory that tries to encroach upon it's hairy domain.

Yet despite it's bad behaviour and unruly nature, this is the good hair, the favoured hair. The hair I lavish expensive shampoo and loving attention upon.

The hair that grows in my armpits, upon my legs and nether regions is not given such tender treatment. Body hair merits some soap and water, if it's lucky. If it's unlucky it gets razored off, torn out by the roots or burnt away with chemicals. Such harsh treatment, just for being different, for growing slightly shorter and coarser and in unfashionable places.

It doesn't go meekly, though. There are little pockets of resistance. There are the ingrown hairs with their peaceful protests, pissing me off with their "hell no, we won't go" until I have to have them forcibly removed. Then there are the hairy ghettos that spring up in the most inaccessible regions. It is a constant battle.

Maybe one day I will learn to overcome my body hair prejudice and let it grow. A new era of peace will dawn and I will stop waging an unwinnable war and embrace the Chewbacca look....