Gold for Japan

Day after day the news updates poured in, of more failures by Japan’s Winter Olympic team to get any medals.

Until Thursday, when Shizuka Arakawa took Gold in Figure Skating.

What I’m concerned with though is how on Earth she got from this position, – horizontal in mid-air – back to vertical on ice?

Ah, just another of life’s great mysteries.

It’s grim up North

Travelling by train in the North, you can’t go more than a few miles before stumbling upon one of these polluting beauties. No less than 3 on the short strech between Sheffield and York.

Horse C*ck

As regular Mumblers will know, the most common search term entered into Google that results in my site being displayed is “Horse Cock”. Why, I have no idea, for this was happening long before my story of the Horse that stands proudly at the entrance to the famed Dinosaur “Don’t Go There” Park of North Devon.

Well, I am resigned to TGWs fate as being the No.1 place where true fans of plastic beastiality came come for satisfaction – if you can’t beat ’em, join em.

So here I present the second addition to my collection of life-size plastic horse appendages, as seen at the National Railway Museum in York.

That’s the other thing that gets me – why on Earth do these creatures end up in places like dinosaur parks and railway museums, and not city farms that are a bit pushed for space?

WARNING! Only click on this link if you are over 18.

As you can see, Patrick the Plastic horse was more than a little surprised when I directed my cybershot at his naughty bits.

Why?

The is only one question that needs to be asked of this Estate Agent – WHY?

Surely you could have thought of another name for your business, rather than using the unfortunate title that you were born with.

I mean, it’s bad enough having a name like that anyway, you know, when making an oppointment for the dentist over the phone etc, (yes, C – R – Abut to actually use it as the name for your buisiness and therefore have it prominently displayed right across the city…

Fan Mail

You may recall that Last October I received a love letter, from a stranger, named Tony.

That was not the first time that that had happened. You see, I write for an Australian magazine, not a real magazine, just a pretend one. It has a print run of about 7000, and is sent to members of a certain organisation all around the world. Anyway, as a result of the inclusion of my tales from the road, I do get a fair bit of post, including quite a few propositions.

Today’s proposal was a little different from the usual, in that it wasn’t from a man. It was even more unusual in that the woman who penned the letter is, it must be said, rather attractive.

I give you, Miss. H.



What’s even more bizarre, is that although Miss. H’s letter has come from Ghana, she did her degree not 10 minutes walk from where I am now sitting.

My favourite section is the bit that reads,

“Are married or marrried before? Do you have a girl loves? I am single, I am only praying that I meet Mr Wright.”

I assume here she means Mr. Right, and not Steve Wright, the balding moustache-wielding BBC Radio 2 Disc-jockey.

“I must admit you are very handsome, so I saw your in the Australian magazine”.

…hmmm

Of course, as we all know, she is 5 months too late, as last September I was hunted down by *Cough* who flew all the way from Tokyo just to get her hands on me.

However, had *Cough* not come along, what would my response to Miss. H. have been? Well, initial phwarings out of the way I would have inspected the photos closely to see if they revealed anything more about her breasts personality.

Ah, yes, there we have it, 1st sign that we would not be compatible:


Yes, huge earings. We all know that you can never trust a woman with big dangly earings, as they usually contain radio transmitters that are linked to the CIA’s HQ. Clearly, a spy.

Looking a little closer at teh 1st photo above and … ah yes, tell-tale sign…

The nail extensions. Ooohh there’s nothing in this world that drives me into a frantic where-are-my-scissors frenzy more than ridiulously long nail extensions. Utterly impracticle. How the hell is she supposed to do the washing up after I’ve eaten with those great paddles glued to the ends of her fingers?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure Miss. H. is a lovely girl, just not quite my type.

I’ll pop her in my big black file, along with Tony and that chap in the Phillipines who tried to seduce me with the legendary line,

“On a personal level, I am certified male, endowment 6 cut bottom”.

tarra