A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe

Greatness is there for all to achieve.

And it's not a case of "i can", "i believe".

Do it or not, or sit down and probe,

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

Every thing's there and you can take part.

Every new skill can be honed to an art.

Whatever you do, be sure to absorb

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

Beautiful comfort you'll craft in your nest.

Surrounding materials that suit you the best.

Except for the smell that stifles your robe.

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

And then you'll find love; the warmest of mood.

You'll want to do all sorts of things in the nude.

And eat with her/him the greatest food on the globe;

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

This month revealed a strange title that's resulted in a strange post from myself. Out of the four contributors of this blog i am the most likely to actually eat A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. But alas, i haven't. I have eaten a slice or two of pizza that shouldn't have been touched due to old age. I've eaten a mars bar that i found in the innards of a couch. (Which one contributor enjoys bringing up at social gatherings.) I am the inspiration of a game titled "What's this i put in your mouth" wherein i close my eyes, open my mouth and anticipate while my surrounding friends have a party. The worst was french mustard or a spice that i cant remember the name of. I haven't, however, got a story that involves me eating, or even having A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. So i couldn't really tell you about my experience of it.

I wrote you a poem instead.

(I did eat a rabbit shit sandwich for a dare, though)

*****

Rather an odd one for you this week but, my gosh, where are my manners. Hello and welcome to another slice of blog pie, the only pie to taste of soggy blobs (disgusting). Now, you’re probably looking at the title and thinking to yourselves (unless you’re psychic and are thinking to someone else) “That title seems rather straight forward. I wonder how he’s going to misinterpret that.”  It’s a fair point I suppose. I do have a history of taking words apart and re-coding them for my own purpose. But not today. This will be a run of the mill explanation about a bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. So buckle your helmets and don your best jodhpurs because we are going for a ride (on a horse apparently).

I had recently moved in to a new house with my parents. They had asked me to go in to the shed at the bottom of the garden and clear some of the mess that was in it. Being a child (of some description) I grunted some kind of accord and went about starting the arduous task that was clearly meant for those adult types. I began to have fun once I got into it, finding old treasures of the people who had lived here before us (in the house, not the shed). There was an old music player that had a giant brass horn for a speaker, all covered in dust. I wondered how majestic it would have looked in someone’s drawing room a long time ago (then smashed it up because I am a child). In one of the corners was a wardrobe on its side, leaving one of those dark triangular spaces behind it. Not daring to look at what was there I decided to stick my hand in and have a feel around. Immediately I was sick. Then I was sick again. Whatever it was that I had felt was one of two things. Either a mouldy bag of sandwiches or a ladies vagina. It was soft and furry and it felt warm from where the sun had been on it throughout the day. 

Sorry. I’ve just remembered that the story I started telling was Skellig by David Almond. Strange how you sometimes mistake your own memories with children’s novels. Anyway, here is my story about the long titley thing.

The garment lay fresh and new in a box upon the bed. Its velvet reds and silk greens gleamed as the sun glanced across it from the tall window on the east wall. The master had given it as a gift to commemorate my first day of service. Everyone starting their new post had to wear one but I was sure that I would look better than them all (especially that prick, Herman). I went to the mirror and put it on. It fit perfect in all the right places. Just as every chef looks forward to the day he earns his jacket I had looked forward to this day. The day I got my Wardrobe. To be the ward of a nobleman was no small thing (unlike myself) and was a feat that none in my family had ever achieved. I was now entitled to go on hunts with the master to carry his gun and other equipment. This robe was going to be the beginning of a new life.

The first task I was charged with was to go to the next village and procure for my liege a packed lunch. I was a little surprised by this request as we had people within our own village more than capable of making a sandwich. I was told, however, that the town of Derry Li was only two miles down the road and they dealt solely in lunchables (this is how fantasy works, you work with what you got). I began the short, agonising journey the following morning, my wardrobe still gleaming and lint free, with a bag on my back. I would have need of it to bring back my bounty (not the chocolate, coconut hadn’t been invented yet). I found the village rather quickly, if I’m being honest, what with the giant cow sigil above the gate. You couldn’t really miss it. It was a very busy village and the markets were so full of food I could have fed my family (for a change). I got the sandwiches and had a sneaky cheese triangle before starting on the return journey.

This task was not so easy. My village, the village of No Frills, had no large sign or significant feature that made it easy to see from a distance. It didn’t take long for me to become completely lost. Then one day, some two months later, my remains were found about a hundred yards from Derry Li. There was nothing left of my body. They say I was eaten by Dunkers. All that was left was a bag of mouldy sandwiches at the back of my wardrobe. My master took on smarter, less blind wards from that point on and soon forgot about me (except for when his tummy grumbled and he wondered where his sandwiches were). So I write this now, in the present, as a warning lest anyone repeat my folly.

If you don’t believe that story you really won’t believe anything. There was real world references in that to keep you grounded in truth. But if you really want to know, I’ll tell you. I used to have packed lunch in school. I never liked cheese spread sandwiches but rather than tell my mother I used to hide my uneaten sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. One day, during a clear out my mother discovered the bag of mouldy sandwiches and almost vomited. So basically, both Skellig and the other story are true accounts of the same tale. Good Night!

*****

Dafydd Evans

Luke Sampson

How beer saved my life

I was supposed to submit this on the 28th of August, however on that day i took my father to the doctors surgery as he needed some attention. My dad is a functional alcoholic and im annoyed about it. So that day i was a little dramatic and chose not to write about it.

I soon got over my little dramatic hump and put my mind to the title and found a little anecdote that synchronizes perfectly with the title. 

In my second year of university i moved there with a few of my friends. A bunch of single guys, ready to party, live it up and indulge in some healthy shenanigans.

I soon realised that i was a little less reserved than my friends after some tasty alcoholic yumyum juice. Once night during freshers week, a traffic light party i believe it was, i accelerated onto the road of blurry vision and low inhibitions. 

I wore green which means "come at me!". I saw a lady wearing green and i knew what that meant and so i attempted it. 

I cant remember much but waking up the next day and i saw the lady that i brought home with me. Something struck my fragile, hungover, puny brain when i noticed that she was wearing different clothes. When i asked her about it which sounded like "Uuughh, umm chain?" she replied "Yeah i've been home to freshen up and i thought i'd get changed while i was there.". Bless her for understanding the query of a caveman but i couldn't get past that she wore the reddest clothes she had.

We agreed to give each other a day and maybe hookup the next time we were out. But i couldnt get the giant red warning light out of my head. everything about her told me that she wanted a relationship and i had JUST moved into a house. I didn't want anything more than a bit of fun. I was 18/19 and little to no skills with relationships, other than "be childish".

throughout the next day and a half i worried and got teased by my friends but mainly tried to feorget about it all by immersing myself in my new brilliant environment that had a big tv, 3 game consoles and lots of booze.

One night there was a house party at my new place and it was filled with relatively close friends. we're were all merry, laughing and joking and competing on our videogames when the door knocked. We were warned by the landlord that our neighbor was an elderly, cantankerous man so we geared for a minor argument. A lady guest answered the door as she was welcome to. I was in the kitchen and i heared the door knocker venomously inquire "Who are you? Is Dafydd in?".

I had two choices. Bail: Run out the back door, jump over the wall and keep running, or Face the problem head on: Go and see her, talk to her and get her hostile sounding self out of the party.

I know what you think i did, but i was drunk and would've been sick if i did all that running. So i went with option 2 and left the house with her, after downing 3 shots and a can. A friend of mine joined me as he was mildly taken with her friend.

Now i cant remember a thing after leaving her house. i woke up in my own bed with  no one to talk to, just two or 3 text on my phone, all asking "how are you feeling?" I phoned the last person i knew was with me and he told me what i did.

"You were hilarious, butt. She clearly wanted you to stay with her and you clearly didn't want to be, like, tied down. You told her that in the park but you were like "We could just have fun together tonight" haha. She was like"It's cold out here, let's see how we feel in my house." So we went to her house and i was kinda chuffed because i was about to get it on too but we got in her house and i knew that was off the cards. Something happened to you. You didn't react well to the pressure she was putting on you"

"Oh shit, i didn't upset or hurt anyone did i?"

"You didn't say or do anything nasty, dont worry, hahaha, you did something so much more creative. you went to the kitchen and insisted on some water because you felt drunk. You poured the water on your head, the floor and the ceiling!"

"What?"

"Yeah, so then you felt bad about that, stopped laughing and decided the mop the ceiling. They didn't even know that they had a mop but you found one! Anyway her housemates made them make you leave. Then ***** was like let's go to yours and you said "No i need to be by myself. I'll see you around." and then you ran! Last night was the stupidest night i've had, looking after you."

"Sorry butt"

"It was a pleasure man dont worry. Get a bacon sandwich down you, buddy, ill see u later."

"bye, buddy"

I never heard off her since. I didn't have the diplomatic, mature, relationship skills to deal with her appropriately but beer made her go away. 

And that's how beer saved my life. 

I have grown up now. Honest.

*****

Both in appearance and in demeanour my father was a repulsive creature, so from the off: beer saved my life.  In this instance it was the twelve pints of Caernarfon Golden Earthy that my mother plunged ecstatically down the naive funnel of her gullet.  My father, you see, if one were to become drunk in his presence, would be struck by the misleading, but very persuasive, sensation that his company was enjoyable.  Upon waking morning next, the reckless imbiber would be privy to a snap realisation that this was emphatically not the case.

It is well documented that the night was one of rabid debauchery.  The story ran for several days in the front half of a moderately reputable newspaper, and was covered again in a special commemorative pull-out section the following spring.  The hoteliers reserved for the event a far colder place in their recollections.

“I have never seen the like before or since!” bawled the landlady as she appeared for a half a second as a talking head on a BBC retrospective many years later.  A shiny graphic undulated on-screen, attempting to depict what experts believe they have pieced together of the night from the available forensic evidence.  Nobody was any the wiser, and the entire production resulted only in a further spread of old fashioned VD.

As long as I knew him, my father walked with a limp but, when queried, his old school pals assure me that he was of near-Olympian fitness in his youth.  That’s the sort of woman my mother was.  A beauty worth tearing your cruciate ligaments over.

I am Maximilian Willoughby, and this is how beer saved my life the second time, and took my mother from me.

It was a cruise liner of incomparable splendour; a sleek, pure-white jet of ambition-in-steel, cleaving its way through the North Atlantic Ocean.  If you had binoculars and a taste for that kind of thing, you could see Norway out to the East, but I had no mind for that.  Of course, given my time aboard again, I would dearly love to see Norway, but such activities numbered not among my priorities in those days.  Why squint about for the old Viking homeland when such magnificent pleasures lay aboard ship?  If I should like to see barbarians in their barbarous natural environs I should be the type who is regularly seen ‘in town’.  I must most effusively assure you that I do not carouse with the rough classes.  I carouse only with gentlemen and ladies, of the kind who now populated the ship.

Ah, yes.  The ship.  The H.M.S. Alabas Nana, so called in reference to her alabaster hue, and due to her looking like a banana.  Of course, she looked less like a banana whilst she was afloat, but when seen from beneath the ocean, it became easier to appreciate the apposite naming.  I was a red-blooded young buck at the time, I am told that I brought to mind the image of a powerful and dynamic elk, ready to clash antlers with any and all rivals, to gore in order for the right to gore whomsoever I chose.  I was very impressed with the triumph that was the Alabas Nana, but I was more engrossed in matters of the purple banana.

The most ravishing beauties in all the Empire were all around me.  All varieties were present.  Some festooned the deck in scanty waterwear consisting of as few strands of material as was possible.  Those few lengths were as thin as would hold without causing them to shred the wearer like superheated piano-wire through an ice-sculpture of a pianist.  Others billowed along the windy rails in flowery dresses, seeming to my eyes - fogged by desire - half-jellyfish, half-beautiful lady.  I must warn all hyperlibidinous youngsters that it is wholly unadvisable to read the works of H.P. Lovecraft at any time.  Though, if you will insist on that course of action, it is advisable to avoid doing such in the following contexts:

1) Around ladies.  They are not in any way interested in the gruesome horrors of a twisted American.

2) At sea.  Much of Lovecraft’s oeuvre involves monstrosities either appearing at or deriving from the sea.  Read about mermaids instead.

3) Around ladies at sea.  Especially if you discover you have some strange, undesired and unexpected, lusty fetish for briny femme fatales.  It can quite destabilise a fellow.

Consider yourself warned.

There was much to feast upon for a passenger who was prepared for a banquet of female flesh.  I was well-equipped, shall we say.  No sooner had I boarded the craft than I mentally readied myself for a journey of variety.  One dusky afternoon I very suddenly had the tap of flowing femininity jerked firmly closed on me.  Her name was Guirana Sashma, but she insisted “you call me Dee-Anna”, and I did.

I was infatuated with her from the off.  I was stuck to her as though I was a puppy she had cable tied to her boot by its face.  I even made the noises.  Her hair roared around her head, a savage mane of sandy blonde, her shocking amber eyes held me in mesmeric awe.  I was the prisoner of her charm, and how I longed to deserve my incarceration.

It was a family holiday.  With my parents and familial entourage aboard, I was seldom free to pursue my dearest Dee-Anna.  My father liked Dee-Anna, my mother less so.  I knew if I was to achieve even a purloined afternoon with my goddess I would have to concoct an ingenious way to keep my dear parents much away from my person.  Like a demented chicken that has had sex with blueprints, I hatched a plan.

I was to meet dearest Dee-Anna on the top deck of the ship.  It was busy that night, an ensemble of Scottish Communists were making a rousing go of water caber toss, to the dismay of all cultured individuals aboard.  Using the celtic roughhousing as cover, we sped across the deck and, clamping our hooks to the railings, we rappelled several feet down the side of the ship.

We kissed, how we kissed!  Spiralling gently with the swing of our descent I felt as though I had been taken to heaven and that I could keep my body.  All the better for the retaining of my natural urges.  Our spinning slowed, and I gazed, enraptured, into her eyes.  Such a deep amber were they that I swear I saw a yellow shark swimming therein.  But the moment was aborted.

With a lurch of my stomach, I realised that the counter-swing had begun.  I glanced up, seeing our ropes intertwined and speedily disentangling themselves.  Panic shot up my leg, and from the spreading warm feeling I was getting, down hers.  There was only the spin and the holding of our breaths, and then the wires came loose.

We flew apart.  She crashed heavily into the craft, and my mouth ‘O’ed in shock as I saw her raised above, her wire being reeled by the burly arms of the Scotch Trotskyites above.  They had been drawn to look because she had been screaming throughout, I now noticed.  Without a pause, they began to haul me in, but with a merciless snap, my wire gave.

Such a plunge I have never felt since, the sensation of my heel longing for my larynx.  Every meal I had ever had was reversing into my mouth.  From above I discerned a descending angel, arched into a textbook classic-style dive.  Majesty beyond compare.  As the figure approached I realised with crushing embarrassment that it was my very own mother.  She crashed into me, taking me in her arms but 10 feet from the Atlantic’s reach.

In a swimming pool it would have been a trophy-winning splash, but it is difficult to impress in the context of a sea.  SPUH-LASH.  It was damn cold, I remember.  I first became acutely aware of how unimpressive splashes are when viewed in the ocean moments later, when a beer keg bombed nearby us.  I later found out it had been a last-ditch effort to save us by the Celts, who I began to feel I’d given slightly short shrift.  Ma-ma and I climbed upon it.

After that trip my mother was indeed lost.  It was a dreadful week of floating and drinking only seawater and eating what seagulls we could grab.  Eventually, we reached Norway.  My mother was entranced by the country, and never returned.  I myself was somewhat shocked by the culture of the place.  You know, they’re quite civilised these days.

*****

Welcome back to the only blog on the internet. Well the only blog I’ve written. Well the only blog I’ve written this year (if I read as often as I wrote I would never have finished a book, which I totally have). Now before we begin with the main body of text that will make up the funny story relating to the heading, there is some admin I must address. It seems that a lot of you were interested in the pasty pen that was mentioned in the last entry. This interested me too as I have no recollection of ever owning or using a pasty pen. Fortunately for you, I am a master genius and have invented a new one. Here is how it is made. First, walk in to your local bakery, or a Greggs if you live in Britain, and ask for a pasty. It has to be one that is big enough to fit a pen (I’ll tell you why in a minute). Say thank you and finish your transaction courteously. Next, go to your local stationary store, or WHSmiths if you live the UK, and ask for a pen. It can be a marker or a ballpoint or even a gel glide but it has to be small enough to fit in a pasty (wait, for fuck sake). Lastly, stick the pen in your pasty so that only the tip is poking out. This way you can do your work and eat your dinner at the same time. Just don’t eat the pen. (Patent Pending 2012). Next week I will explain how you can get your hands on a steak bake iPad.

When it comes to alcohol I’ve never really had a very good relationship. As a teenager I flirted a little with the devils tipple. As a student I came on heavy to Satan’s bevvy. And as an adult I have no taste for it (what rhyming?). But I can say with the greatest respect and gratitude that without alcohol I don’t think I would be alive right now. The story begins back in High School, or Cymer if you are me (which you are not, but I am). I was never very popular outside of my extensive group of friends. Within my group of friends however, I would say that I was the leader, the Boss. They would come to me with problems, presents and prostitutes (ignore the last one). It was a position of power that required my attention around the clock. I had people hanging on the bell all day and never giving me a moments peace. I felt like a hundred and eleven year old hobbit trying to arrange a birthday party. So, on occasion I would allow myself a small alcoholic drink (of immense strength) to relieve some stress. Stress of course being the number one killer of high school kingpins. Or so I thought. As it happens, jealous second-in-commands are the number one killer of high school kingpins and I was about to find that out the hard way (not all the way though or I wouldn’t be writing this, so don’t worry).

I was, as it was customary, taking my Friday morning movements (jogging or shitting, I can’t remember) when the door to the cubicle burst open and in came my best friend. I would have shook his hand all polite but mine were busy with other things. Oh, and he had a knife in his. I sprung up and gave him a clout with the only thing at hand (yes, I was wiping my arse or jogging). Now covered in shit he chased me back to the common room where, due to my awesome speed, I already was. I throw my glass of high octane spirits at the tissue on his face then set the bastard on fire (teach him to interrupt a jog). That was the first time alcohol saved my life (although not beer). There were more attempts on my life in the months that were left in school and somehow they all ended in a similar way. I don’t know if this was a skill I became proficient in or whether the writer was too lazy to think of any more incidents (fourth wall, never!). Shortly after that I left the safety net of private education (or public in American) and became an university student.

Having lost my celebrity status in Uni, I decided to take up golf. Pub golf. This seemed to be a popular way of making friends and having people idolize you. All I needed was an inert ability to imbibe copious amounts of alcohol in as little ‘sips’ as possible. I would have to practice. So I drank and drank and drank each night until I could take down a whole bottle of beer in a single ‘sip’. I worked at it and eventually practice paid off.  I entered the local PGA Tour (Pub Golf Arseholes) and I was all ready to take my place, back in the upper echelons of society when disaster struck. A lighting rig, high above my head, had been wired wrong (some years ago by some cowboy builders but the student union didn’t have the money to put it right) and burst in to flames. The flames subsequently set fire to my drink, just as I was slamming it back. Soon my mouth was ablaze and no one knew what to do. Everyone was apanic (too right it’s a word). I, however, remained calm. Having set many a person’s visage on fire I also knew how much liquid it would take to put it out. Exactly one beer. This was the moment I had been waiting for (in a situation I wouldn’t have imagined). Grabbing a bottle from the bar I chugged the golden nectar back in one almighty swig. The fire subsided and everyone was cheering. The only injury I sustained was a very burned tongue and a retarded mustache growth. That was the time that alcohol, beer specifically, really saved my life.

I am now an adult and as I said earlier I have no taste for alcohol. Well, actually, I have no taste for anything because of the burned tongue thing. I can’t even taste the pasties that I have on my pens (that’s why I forget them, duh!). So until next time, don’t forget to be aware of your drinking (spirits are flammable and beer isn’t).

*****

Dafydd Evans

Adam Gilder

Luke Sampson

Invent a new flavour of crisp

Invent a new flavor of crisps

I'd like to start this post by explaining that i've given myself many distractions during the upcoming week of this blog entry. It's deadline was saturday the twenty eighth of April and i am submitting mine on the first of May. 

I'd also like to point out that the title this month was provided by me and i truly regret writing the words down on the paper before putting it into the hat.

So here we go:

Ladies and gentlemen feast your eyes, mouths and bellies on a crisp. 

But what?

You've never heard of Prime Spud (trademark) before?

NONSENSE! Prime Spud (trademark) is the new crisp on the tip of everyones tongue. It has perfect texture. Perfect CRUNCH! PERFECT FLAVOURS!

That's right, our great variety of flavours will have you trembling with pure potato pleasure!

Flavours like: Number 1, number 2, number 3, number 5, number 7, number 11, number 13, number 17.......

Waaaaa?

THAT'S NOT WHAT PRIME SPUD (trademark) STANDS FOR!

We have REAL flavours, such as:

Dragon Age flavour. Wrap your tongues and bite your teeth into the tantalizing taste of Archdaemon Dragon stake flavour. It's Fiery!

How about Fallout: New Vegas Falvour? These crisps are RADIOACTIVE! And that's not even the best part! They taste better than a DeathClaw omelet! Mmmm.

If that's not you're style, why not try Dead Space flavour! Have you ever tasted pure zero gravity? It'll chop your limbs off! 

All these flavours and many more at your nearest Prime Spud Crisp stand. Or get them online at primespudcrisp.com/unreal/reallynotreal! Standard delivery charge.

 And for one month only you can get our limited edition flavour.

CROC FLAVOUR! You get the true taste of classic platformer legend Croc with a peppering of Gobbos just for good measure! It has that classic, colourful yet boring taste! GET IT NOW!

Prime Spud (trademark) 

stimulates your

Taste Bud!

*****

Another use for a crisp

Tetrahedron whined plaintively under the ferocious gaze of my dearest wife.  Such a coward, I thought, as I attempted to sidle through a nearby door.  No such luck.

"…and you, Maxi.  Why?!" she trilled at me.  Skies above!

Lounging in one of the many lounging rooms which festoon my manor house, Tetrahedron and I had been workshopping ways in which we could regain some favour in the eyes of our darling Queen Vicky-Tory I.  It is not easy to think up a novel gift for a Queen.  She is sure to have been inundated with an encyclopaedia's worth of novel gifts.  Our gift would have to be more than novel.  It would have to be trilogy.

"Dear Ian," I said to him "we are going to need a very trilogy idea to please Vicky-Tory."  He looked at me blankly.  Quite understandable, of course.  The joke doesn't really work, but I was damned if I wasn't going to use it.  I was irked, and it was the best I could do at the time, so he was going to have to lump it.  "What do you think, then?  Lay your ideas on me."

My good companion indulged in a spot of handwringing, his favourite pastime when he is caught without an idea.  If brains were like secret organisations then all of Ian Tetrahedron's secret operatives were often openly inoperative.  I gave him a moment, and saw the briefest blip from what I could only assume was a very lonely secret agent.

"Well~" Tetrahedron allowed, his hands having been entirely wrung "I've heard that Vicky-Tory is a bit of a snacker, Max, she loves new and interesting snacks."

"Does she?" I replied, feigning distracted disinterest, but in reality I was delighted to be given even this scrap of information.  After all, if this eventually was revealed to be untrue then blame would earth itself to Tetrahedron as the originator of the idea.  A very pleasing state of affairs.

"So I hear, so I hear.  Apparently, she becomes very enthused every time a potato crisping manufacturer runs a competition to invent new and novel flavours.  Rumours tell that she never invents flavours herself, but she is free and easy with her rewards for those who do."

Eyes aglitter with a plan spreading out organically in front of me, I smiled and clapped Tetrahedron heavily on the back.

We found ourselves in a large industrial building the next day, not in the main hollow but, passing through an officious-looking portal we were shown to a smaller, meticulously clean room.  It was a spacious kitchen area, the surfaces gleaming with fresh cleanliness and the reflections of the equally clean implements which adorned the walls.  The room's cupboards had glass windows, behind which we could see all manner of pots and pans.  In my suit, I felt a little out of place.  I would have felt worse were it not for the similarly besuited Tetrahedron beside me.  The presence of my correctly attired butler, Simkins, became an instant annoyance.  We'd brought him along as we figured that he had more practical experience when it came to… well, maybe not cooking.  Perhaps we simply felt he was more practically experienced generally.  He certainly has silver hair, which suggests an amount of experience.

I could have directly confronted Simkins, since it was his butlerian responsibility to clothe me appropriately.  How was I to know?  It is not for me to know which clothes I should wear, that is why I employ the man!  But it doesn't do to directly confront the staff.  It simply isn't Done.  The Willoughbys never confront their staff, and in this way we can hold our heads high and proclaim that we have the best staff; staff that never make mistakes.  Catching my eye, Simkins closed the space between us and with an imperceptible lowering of his head informed me that factory clothes for Tetrahedron and myself were contained in the rucksack he'd prepared.  I would have felt bad for doubting him, but fortunately I am a Willoughby, and so I hadn't.

Mentally wiping my brow I caught sight of a figure approaching us at a pace.  With a stride so strident it approached goose-stepping, the figure bore down upon us and in our turns visited us each with a wank-stopper of a handshake.

"Basil Fullsugar, gentlemen," he declared, steadying himself and sucking a full breath through teeth clamped tight in an eternal grin.  Ah yes, one of Isabella's friends.  It never ceases to amaze me that my dearest wife, Lady Isabella Willoughby, manages to keep acquaintances with people so many and varied.  Such strange creatures, most of them.  This Fullsugar fellow was an entrepreneur who'd made his mark on the business world because of the fascinating and commendable things he thought to do with potatoes.  Quite scandalous, some of them, but you know the sorts of things that'll excite the plebs.  Who better to help us in our endeavours to win back the favour of our splendid Queen?

All kitted out appropriately, we were soon up to our navels in potato viscera, and we juddered industriously in a frenzy of creation.  We were Veg Lords, Masters of all that Grows Below Ground.  When the snackers of the world experience how delectable our snack is, we thought, they would curse themselves as buffoons for ever having delected anything else.  The value of deliciousness was about to be engorged beyond all recognition.  Or so we thought.

Fullsugar had insisted that he would accompany us to Court so that we could present our new flavour to the Queen.  You don't get to be a successful entrepreneur by missing a trick.  Fullsugar was a canny devil, he had developed a second sight which acted like a sheet of coloured gauze which could descend over his eyes and highlighted each and every trick in a prominent golden colour.  "I am a fucking trick!" each trick would scream, "don't miss me!"  And he didn't.  However, as the miners who discovered the sparkling faeces of the underground armpiglets now appreciate, not all that glitters is gold.

Resplendent in her regal finery, a shimmering magisterial glow hovering around her, Queen Vicky-Tory Thronetaker the First choked on a crisp.  A detonation of jagged fried tater shards hurriedly evacuated her mouth and settled in the hair of her nearby sycophants.  I swear I saw one of them pick a crumb out of his hair and ferret it away in his pocket; a potential family heirloom.

Shocked, hurt and angry, Vicky-Tory's gaze swept upon us like the beam of the lighthouse of utter buggery.  Had I not seen him since, I would swear that the look turned Tetrahedron to ash on the spot.  The Queen was quickly ushered to seclusion, and we three inventors made ourselves scarce.  We were confronted by Coyster, the Queen's secretary, as we attempted to make good our escape.  He pushed our crisps into our reluctant arms, and with eyelids at half-mast droned at us.  "Gentlemen, while some saucy individuals may delight that their rubber preventatives have the interesting flavours usually attributed to crisps, no single person, and certainly not our Queen, enjoys the situation being reversed."

We later discovered that Tetrahedron had gleaned his secret information from none other than Dominic leRevven, the greasy sponge, who'd set us up for a fall.  No doubt he was delighted by the stupendous scope of our regrettable misfire.  Condom flavoured crisps.  How was I to know?  I've never had the misfortune of tasting such devices, nor have I visited such on my dear wife.  No indeed.  We use no protection, and should we have the grand misfortune of falling pregnant then we will have an abortion as the Lord intended.

As I had done countless times before I glanced at Tetrahedron and wondered why I continued our acquaintance.  My wife fumed animatedly and the room become claustrophobic as it filled up with her copiously offloaded ire.  Slumped in my fourth favourite armchair, Basil Fullsugar was a pathetic, broken figure.  He had built his reputation on potatoes, and now his empire was mash.  How fickle is popularity I thought, safe in the knowledge that I had never had the ill-fortune of being popular.  Weeping wanly into his golden cufflinks, Fullsugar deflated even further.

Well, I thought to myself, though this has largely been a complete mess of a day, at least a well-respected, successful businessman has been brought to his knees for no reason at all.  Though nothing of worth had been achieved, nor any progression or advancement made, at least the status quo had been shaken up a little.  There's little worse in this world than stagnation, I thought to myself, dipping a bourbon biscuit into my milk and eating it with a single bite.

*****

Dafydd Evans
Adam Gilder

Nudity

Nudity

So in conclusion, I don’t think it’s a good idea to hold your breath and open your eyes when you’re swimming in treacle. Welcome once again faithful readers to another edition of the most confusing blog on the net. I am glad to see that you have returned for more, like little Oliver Twists of literature, begging for one more ladle of brain food. Alas, you will find no fish here. Or maybe you will as this month we delve into the recesses of the human form and take a look at nudity.

As we all know, people are naked. Fact. There is no arguing against the case that somewhere at this exact moment, people are naked. Nude, bare, unclothed, whatever you call it, it happens to us all at some point whether willing or under duress, whether we are proud of it or embarrassed. It is the natural form of all living things. We are not born with clothes on (except for that unfortunate fellow that was born with blue plastic gloves) so why do we deem it necessary to enter the world socially fully dressed? Why is it frowned upon in modern society to be starkers in public? It is not so in untouched civilizations, where people live in the forest and are blissfully ignorant to the price tag that we have put on our modesty. For we do not simply cover up as our ancestors did, in the skins of animals or the roughly crafted cottons weaved by parents and grandparents. No, indeed we pay through the nose for poor quality clothing with socially renowned names such as Hollister (who have a lot to answer for) and River Island (who think that tea stained vests are appropriate garments for public use). I know that social scientists and psychologists all have varying theories on why we wear clothing, be it to keep us warm, to distinguish ourselves from rival groups or clans (tartans are an example of this and it is good to see that the Burberry clan is still going strong) and also for mating rituals although some would call my Rudolph Posing Pouch more an accessory than an actual article of clothing (for what it carries I would call it a hold-all).

Many of you know this already but I am an avid fan of the Adult Interest Video Industry and due to this past time I have noticed a thing or two about clothing, and the lack there of. Firstly I would like to say, for those who are unaware, that it is not essential to be completely nude while having sex. Indeed it is not at all necessary to remove even a single item of clothing in order to perform. I have learned through my, ahem, research that most items of clothing can be merely moved to one side so as not to obstruct certain features of the human anatomy. But still, in 90% of cases, most of the clothes worn by the brave combatants are taken out of play. Why would this be the case when it is evident that these individuals are in something of a rush to gain entry? It got me thinking and I have a possible answer that ties in nicely with the time of year. The naked body is something to behold, perfectly precise and beautifully designed, they have been the inspiration behind many a sports car with their sleek curves (and lack of back seat or boot space). If, however, we were to see it continuously it would hold no allure anymore and we, the human race, would be at a deficit of one of our most valuable tools for attracting a mate and would be forced to use other features such as personality leaving some of us with no chance at all. Instead, we keep it wrapped up like a special gift because when a present is wrapped, even if we know what it is, we become more excited for it. Think about Christmas morning when you see all your presents. Even though you know collectively what is there, because you asked for most of it, you do not know what exactly is under each piece of wrapping. The same applies to the clothed form. You may well know that the woman that you are de-robing has two breasts that are of a certain size and a vagina that is properly maintained but with clothes on you can’t be certain what they look like in the flesh, so to speak. If you lined up a hundred women with the exact same measurements and stripped them off, you would likely not get any two the same. The excitement is in the discovery (an archaeologist doesn’t say ‘Fuck it, I’ve found one T-Rex skeleton. The rest will probably look the same). That’s not to say that you would not be grateful if you were given a gift that was not wrapped. I know a lot of people who would prefer it that way. But it would be a boring process, courting someone, if the whole time you knew exactly what was coming. And much like Christmas you may be of the mind to indulge in a sneak peek, just to keep your interest in the prize you so desperately covet.

To close, I believe all naked bodies should come with the following care tag:

The birthday suit, like all other good suits, is a special dress that has a time and a place. It is to be worn on special occasions, when the dress code calls for such an outfit. It must be kept clean and when not in use, it must be stored properly. It should not be allowed to get damp and it is preferable for it not to become moth eaten. As the suit becomes older, more care should be taken to protect its shape as seams will become loose and elbows/knees will become worn. The suit may be prone to creasing if left unused for long periods of time. To not tumble dry or steam iron.

*****

've had massive trouble with this topic. I can't remember who suggested it but i can say he's stumped me. I've done all sorts of things to whip my mind into shape to write this one. The only conclusion i've reached is that i should spend more time whipping my body into shape, as opposed to my mind.

I've seen the penis of each writer of this blog and they have each seen mine in return. It wasn't an accord we struck to level up our friendship, by any means. We've all just spent a lot of time together.

One writer revealed himself to me (and the rest of the house, visitors included) just by sitting in next to nothing whilst playing his playstation 3. Quite content in his own world which was called Tamriel, i think.

Another writer was under very emotional distress when i saw his winky. He was only nineteen at the time, I believe, and his hormones were as riled as his feelings. He is a very popular soul and had friends to console him. We sat him down on the bed and told him to punch his mattress instead of the plaster cast wall. The only way to calm him down it seemed to us was to make him hysterical. Draw out a laugh and reboot the system. Then, a perfect opportunity poked out and said hello. He was only wearing his dressing gown which clumsily opened to reveal his todger. So I said "Look, i know this isn't the time but i can see your willy, but." Which seemed to do the trick. He got dressed and went about his day.

The third writer has been completely naked in the same room as me and four other men. It was a Wales rugby international day and we were playing drinking games all night. If i remember it rightly, My friend and I were a little more reserved than the outright rugby fanaticss and we kept our trousers on for a little while longer. Until the words "Daf. I think it's about time you got naked" were exclaimed. So I did. And it was a Great fucking night.

So there you have three examples of gentlemen who were exposed and the result was happiness, if only for a little while.

I enjoy being nude. When it's warm enough. I don't make a habit of doing it. Especially in public. I think the last time i got naked in company I was told "Even you're arse looks happy". This information cheers me, although i've never looked at a sad looking arse.

I guess where im going with this disjointed post is that nudity is fun. It's innocent, it's empowering and it's free. You can do it anywhere. You always have the option to get naked and it will always make someone laugh, even if it's just yourself. I don't recommend doing it in a public event or near the police. They don't like it and they can do something about it.

Ok, so this blog post is a bit choppy. You're basically getting my thoughts as they travel through my fingers. So what im going to do is neaten it up at the end. Im going to give you a list of ten things you can do whilst being naked that you'll probably enjoy.

1. Exercise: Exercising without clothes is insane. Your body is more free to stretch, you can see your muscles at work and your genitals look hilarious whilst resting on the end of a bike seat. (With women im not so sure there.) Remember to always have a towel at hand.

2. Excretion: This dodgy subject i was made aware of by the show "Scrubs". While you're getting rid of waste, do it naked. It's just better. (It can be inconvenient)

3. Dancing: Yep, dancing. Dancing is one of the more fun things to do in life. It's excitement and energy is augmented by nudity.

4. Bathing/Showering: Now i don't know if you've tried this but cleaning yourself whilst being naked is not only fun but extremely practical. Every nook and cranny is ready and waiting to be cleaned when your in the nude.

5. Recreational drug use: Have you ever wondered why sports teams often increase moral and spirit by drinking heavily and getting naked? This is because drinking whilst naked is the bees knees.

6. Relaxing: Kick off your shoes, socks, overwear and underwear and be naked whilst watching TV or playing a video game. Your relaxation levels increase twofold.

7. Sleeping: Sleeping naked is something I don't do often, but when i do I love it!

8. Cooking: I know that Jamie Oliver is a bit of a twat, albeit, quite the chef. His original show Naked Chef is also slightly crap. But cooking whilst naked is just great.

9. Social Networking: There's nothing better than chatting with your friends, colleagues and peers on the old social networking site while you're naked. Do it and see what i mean. (Im naked right now)

10. Being Creative: I often play guitar naked. I also write stuff naked. I find that my creative ideas are never under par when im naked. My creative performance increases thrice the original, clothed amount. If you've hit a creative wall, get naked.

So there you have ten things that you can try, if you haven't already. I think this blog-post is my favorite last minute effort that i've ever produced. I hope you are well and that you are naked.

******

Put it Away! or How I Know that Bared Human Flesh in an Abomination

Good heavens! Scarcely can I venture from the grounds of my land, nor peep from the upper echelons of my towers without my oracles suffering a cannonade of unfiltered humanity. I cannot bear to see bared flesh, it makes my stomach churn with the violence of a child drowned in a storm. I must apologise for the strength of that analogy, but I feel it is entirely necessary to kindle in you an appreciation for quite how distasteful I find the sight of skin. Grargh!

Humanity developed clothing for a reason. It is because our bodies are hateful to us. The soul within the body is trapped, like a dignified gentleman bedecked in formal regalia forced to travel via a zorb ball of muck, carried aloft on a canal of effluent. It is clear in both examples that we are better than such things, and must strive to rise above of our imperfect transport.

The bodhisattva Siddhartha Gautama knew well this problem, but incorrectly identified that it is life itself that is suffering. Wrong, Siddy, wrong. It is our bodies which are the source of suffering. Look at them for Cruijff's sake! They are loose, sagging, peach hemp sacks holding on for dear life! The Sisyphean effort of the human form to defy gravity is a pathetic reminder of our imperfection and must be summarily ignored. Of course not everybody agrees with me, and those whose conclusions differ from my own are, quite simply, cretinheaded pocks.

There are even such fools as believe the human body is a thing of beauty!!! I have a mouthful of vomit simply considering such an untenable position. Beautiful, they say. Good spirits, I should fucking well say not! The droop of a breast and a willy's wrinkles and not things to be celebrated. They are things to be covered up, as all fundamentalists correctly know. However, they also believe that god created us perfect, which is clear nonsense. No sensible thought had a hand in designing a human being. Should we shit when standing, our excrement would travel down the backs of our legs, which is wholly unpleasant. A further example of the imperfection of humanity are the people who, most perversely of all, enjoy these sorts of things. People who would like nothing more than to have flecks of faecal matter in their eyelashes. Dirty dogs! It is horrifying to think that even if people appear decently dressed, it is still possible they are harbouring essence of dookie in the hair near their eyes, the eyes they are looking at you with. Cack. But I digress.

No, I will digress. Surely we cannot be perfect beings, how perfect can we be when in experiments run by Berrendium University, 98% of sane humans were unable to differentiate between an image of a testicle sack or of an elbow. What caring creator would copy and paste between two such incompatible areas? Not a cowing one! It wouldn't and didn't happen.

I was once so disgusted with my own physicality that I bit a chunk of flesh straight out of my arm, but this only succeeded in upsetting me further.

Cover yourself up!

It just occurred to me that you could be naked reading this, and it revolts me. I'm freezing cold right now and I'm wearing a quarter of a million togs worth of duvet. How cold must you be whilst naked? Very cold indeed, but of course you cannot feel the cold because you are being protected by Diabolus, King of Hell, who loves nudity because he is perversion. Cover yourself up or burn forever in angry sulphur! Get some wool about you for the love of all that is good.

It is an undeniable fact that all bad things happen when at least some part of the skin is clearly visible. The only human who ever successfully lived without sin was Breton Diarckaluuma who was born into a large hessian sack and spent his entire life in there, being fed by his parents who gunged porridge through the side of the sack. The only way they could tell whether he was a girl or a boy was asking him to provide a detailed verbal account of his genitals, which he did with undignified eagerness.

I had sexual intercourse once, and I was so ashamed with both my own body and the body of my accomplice I drowned us both in a vat of dimethylmercury where we both would have died had I not INSISTED that we be clothed in an Iron Maiden of kevlar. I patented this cleansing procedure under the name Nudity-Expunging Baptism. Whenever I masturbate I don't look.

Fashion today is like the worst kind of cooking, tiny proportions and inappropriately ineffective dressing. Just as a sprig of parsley does not cover up a big bowl of oats, so too is vacuum-packing yourself in skimpy garments which do not cover up your skin unsightly.

If my expert evidence has still failed to convince you, consider this, every single person in the history of the world who has ever died at some point had their skin showing. The exception of course is Breton Diarckaluuma, who is alive and well in space, hidden. Be decent and cover up your inane appearance, and you too could live forever.

*****

Luke Sampson

Dafydd Evans

Adam Gilder