Tag: Humour

‘Booby gets Stuck’, Part 2!

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In yesterday’s episode, we left Booby and her son-of-the-soil amour reclining upon a chair in the garden. Read on!

This decrepit leviathan of a seat has been in the shed for donkey’s years – and Kevin obligingly heaves it out into our little trysting spot(a sheltered area, near the sundial) each time he visits.

The weather being exceptionally clement – and all thoughts of Ecclesiastical godparents forgotten – Kevin and I abandoned ourselves to the exquisite lists of lust – and, after a satisfyingly brisk canter upon his lance, I was sated (for the nonce) and lying upon the dear lad’s hirsute pectoral area when, to my horror, trilling voices, and the clatter of cutlery, disturbed the afternoon’s post-coital peace.

Kevin’s ejaculated, ‘Jayzus Christ!’ didn’t exactly help matters.

Fortunately, we were both dressed (other than open zip and fuchsia-flung-panties) – and could have pretended he was just helping me mend the chair, had it not been for three things.

As Godmother Honoria hove into view, warbling, ‘Berengaria, dearest!’ I realised that the springs had finally given up the ghost; that shock had caused Kevin’s battering ram to lock inside my keep – and, worst of all, that we were both immovably wedged and being attacked on all sides by ancient cushion fragments.

With a frisson of horror, I watched the Reverent Percival – who is as blind as a cave crayfish – trip over an inconveniently-placed mole hill (the little buggers get everywhere) and fetch his not-inconsiderable length against the tea table, bestrewing scones, cream, jam and divers biscuits all over the lawn, and shattering much of the rather fine Spode tea set/family heirloom.

Bless him, he then realised that his Christian duty lay in trying to prise his godchild-by-marriage out of her predicament (and, had he but known it, one of her main squeezes out of the old love tunnel).

Blinking amiably, and crunching shards of irreplaceable china underfoot, he said, ‘Do you need a hand, M’dear?’

The resulting half hour was like something straight out of ‘Winnie the Pooh’ – the bit where Pooh gets stuck and all Rabbit’s friends and relations come to the rescue – with much heaving and hoeing and grunting and groaning. The neighbours must have thought I was having a very kinky Vicar-and-Tart-based foursome.

We were flung out, by an exceptionally vicious coiled wire, in the end – and Kevin slunk off, muttering what sounded to me like a Hail Mary. Never knew he batted for the other ecumenical side!

Percival chose to believe my tale of dropping an earring down the back of the chair, Kevin helping me and us both being gratuitously assaulted by an aggressive cushion.

Helga – and I say this reluctantly, for she is not in my good books – certainly came into her own regarding replenishment of supplies, whisking out the second-best tea service and generally smoothing things over.

I will confess, however, that during the melee described above, the faintest second cousin (once-removed) to a blush threatened, briefly, to stain my cheeks.

I may have to retire from society for the foreseeable…

Image of the author with ‘Booby Fellatio’s Lockdown Diary’

Booby gets Stuck!

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Booby Fellatio – aka Lady Berengaria Hermione Agnes Horton-cum-Studley – is a fictional character, who has appeared in my sixth book, entitled ‘Booby Fellatio’s Lockdown Diary’. She is, as the late Sir Terry Pratchett put it, a lady of negotiable affection – and, though well past the first flush of youth (and the second!), manages to attract a bevy of beauteous youths…

This is an extract from a short story (which can be read in full in the above book) entitled ‘Booby gets stuck’:

‘Dearly beloveds! A prostrated Booby here, reduced to a limp rag after a most trying afternoon. My dears, I came within a capillary of blushing, something I have not done (sex-flush apart) since my early teens…

Rude interruption from my tactless nemesis/nursemaid, Helga (I dictate; she scribes – which is as it should be), bleating on about hot flushes and other menopause-related nasties which – and I want to make this abundantly clear – I am nowhere near old enough to experience.

Just because she is going through the most alarming and protracted change of life I have experienced – since Great Aunt Pandora ran naked through Whipsnade Zoo, quoting Goethe loudly in Swahili and crunching a packet of Sherbet Pips – does not mean she can tar me with the same ghastly brush. Really! Now my train of thought has gone down a track not yet completed.

Ah, yes! Blushing!

It all stems from the undeniable fact that I am much in demand socially, as well as from those who flock to my Life’s Mission – and am oft confused as a result. Helga’s minuscule writing on the calendar certainly doesn’t help matters, nor does her irritating habit of changing the names of my amours willy-nilly.

As a result of this inexcusable inefficiency, I double-booked (or rather, Helga did) – and, having invited the Vicar and his wife for afternoon tea (she is my godmother, and I felt I ought to get the annual homily out of the way), I promptly forgot and pencilled in Kevin, a rustic Irish youth who is becoming a bit of a Mellors to my Lady Chatterley, though I draw the line at having honeysuckle plaited through my basement thatching.

Obviously – with social distancing and all that grim business – I was to receive Godmother Honoria and her buck-toothed husband, Percival, in the garden – and, accordingly, got Helga to set out the chairs, table, best china, napkins and other essentials in plenty of time for what I thought was a 4pm engagement, while I sloped off for what Percival would, no doubt, see as a spot of sinning.

Kevin, who is as keen on ploughing a furrow outside as I am, has latterly taken a shine to a large cane garden chair, which belonged in the Nursery when I was young and has suffered somewhat in the intervening years – the ancient cushion being as bristly as a porcupine, and some of the struts but one woodworm attack away from sawdust…’

And there we leave Booby (though the full ghastly story can be found in the book mentioned above).

NB: a friend of mine suggested a wonderful title for this blog – ‘Torrid Tales from Booby’s Boudoir’ – but changing the title was beyond my technical ability, and the blog will be about more than just Booby, entertaining though she undoubtedly is.

Eleven Pipers Piping!

On By alienorasanthologyIn Uncategorized1 Comment

And so it is, three years on, that I leap back into the world of blogging, music trilling from a previous stint upon the treble recorder – and the eleven books I have now written jostling for attention: pushing and shoving one another, like naughty children, and squawking to be noticed.

For my eleventh book a ‘writing, I plunged deep into the world of women with autism – having long suspected that I was of their number – and brought to the surface many sad treasures from the bottom of that emotional ocean.

The finished book itself – ‘Alien Aura Within: Aspects of Autism in Women’ – was hard to write, and I shed many tears in the process. Unable to resist that play upon my own first name, and always drawn to alliteration, I feel that I have both captured something of the essence of women with autism and purged my own soul of long-hidden pockets of shame and distress.

Like the three travel-journal books (written in 2022 and 2023), this latest book has photographic images as an integral part of it.

My literary alter-ego, Booby Fellatio, will, I am sure, pop up on here before long – and her bawdy tales from the boudoir may well result in a twelfth book eventually, though I have to admit that she already features largely in my lockdown diary book, aptly named, ‘Booby Fellatio’s Lockdown Diary’.

Ghost Weed: Goin’ up the country!

On By alienorasanthologyIn Ghost Weed, HumourLeave a comment

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Ghost Weed performing at the Cider Barn, Draycott, Summer 2018. From left to right: John Arnold, Matthew Peach, Neil Phillips and Mark Halper.

It promises to be a busy few weeks for Wrington-based band, Ghost Weed, as they juggle stoups of hilariously-named ale (Pump and Grind – Whooaarr! – being but one example!) with an action-packed set (or two) of groovy music – this all happening at Wrington’s first Beer Festival (8th and 9th March) – and, two weeks later (23rd March), play and sing their respective hearts out/socks off for Redhill Social Club’s Charity Evening.

This past year has seen them gradually extending their range, both geographically and musically, with several appearances in the venue shown above and a rip-roaring evening in Bristol’s Thunderbolt, to name but two.

Now, indulge me while I reflect upon a necessarily-potted history:

The band first started in July 2013, with what I would call a loose collective, or possibly conspiracy, of local musicians who came and went (as musos are wont to do) in waves.

An eclectic stream of both instruments and individuals have passed Ghost Weed’s way in the intervening five-and-a-half years: Bodrans, fiddles, flutes, saxophones, hurdy-gurdies, guitars, drums and whistles have all been tried (and, in some cases, convicted!). Men and women have come and gone – and, for all that a recent line-up included the names Matthew, Mark and John, it is not essential to adopt gospel-related nomenclature to join in!

They had me for a while – if you’ll excuse the somewhat unfortunate turn of phrase – and, though I added much in terms of bawdy conversation, delectable cake and fiery orange-haired-ness, I was not exactly Yehudi Menuhin/Stephane Grappelli on the old violin; in fact, vile-din would be a more apposite phrase for my playing back then!

Since leaving (both band and area), I have, according to the Lads, become their Number One Fan. I follow them around like Mary’s Little Lamb, posting hearts and likes on their posts, and generally behaving like a star-struck adolescent! Tragic, I know!

But, biased though I may be, stupid I am not: Ghost Weed are up-and-coming. They have charisma and verve; they are funny and charming; they light up a stage; their blend of originals and personalised covers are becoming known and appreciated; they do a fine line in silly hats; they have had audience members dancing on the tables and fans crowd-surfing into the instruments/music stands. It’ll be knickers, thongs and bras next; you mark my words!

For their March 23rd Redhill gig, they are going to be inviting guests! Oh, yes! And I don’t mean dreary celebrities who once bared a nipple/got caught in the Congress of the Antelope in ‘Large Male Relative‘(have to be careful not to get sued at this juncture!); I refer here to past members of the band who will, I hope, be trundling out their trumpets, rosining up their bows and hurdying their gurdies (which sounds disgusting and is probably illegal in several counties!), before joining in with the band.

I, as Numero Uno Fanatic (and scraper-upon-the-strings-with-wood-and-horsehair), will be there. I have invited numerous Glastonian friends to accompany me. Will you, my reading public, fetch up at Redhill too?

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Bass player, Michael Lloyd, at the Cider Barn.

Moos, Mates and Mayhem!

On By alienorasanthologyIn Burrington Combe, Natural BeautyLeave a comment

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Thanks to Beef2Live for this image.

So there we were, my friend and I, driving up Burrington Combe, towards Velvet Bottom (as you do!), when…stap me vitals and Lord love a duck, there, in the centre of the road, ambling aimlessly…

…was a damn gurt moo! Yes indeedy! I kid you not! I had a quick, though necessarily distant, kit inspection – and saw evidence suggestive of the male gender! Horns you could have hung a coat on being just a small (actually, bloody huge!) part of it.

Bit of an impasse situation really. Cars were stalled on both sides, and this bothersome bovine didn’t seem in the least bit inclined to step on to the verge. From the perspective of the drivers (now chewing on the fittings and swearing mightily), I suspect a mass disinclination to a) bugger up the bonnet by banging into the beast and b) a very natural wish not to reduce said creature to little more than a vast pile of beef-on-the-hoof, created a caution verging on terminal timidity.

Finally, Exhibit A deigned to saunter grass-wards and, with sighs of relief, we drivers put clutches in, released handbrakes and got ready to roll. Feet down, engines roaring like a squadron of pissed-off velociraptors, we were all set to scream off when…

…turning yet another of Burrington Combe’s interminable blind bends, we came up against SIX MORE MOOZLES! Seriously! Of shepherds, farmers – and other such rustic saviours of the day – there was no sign!

The sextet of steers were, as far as I could see, so laid-back and chilled they must, I fear, have munched a hallucinogenic ‘shroom or three in with their grass diet. They meandered mindlessly for what felt like several weeks before, finally, moving over so that my side of the traffic queue could get the hell out.

My pal and I, wiping the sweat of anxiety from our respective brows, carried on up, up, up – and finally arrived at Blackmoor Reserve (a subsection of the afore-mentioned Silken Posterior!).

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To our amazement, the first thing we saw,  as we drove down to the rudimentary car-park, was a police car (just what we could have done with earlier in the proceedings!); so my friend wandered over and alerted the WPC to the potentially catastrophic carnage-by-cow gathering pace a couple of miles away.

Job done, we went for a much-needed, restorative ramble – a walk delightfully free from unwary ungulates!

Much refreshed, we made our way back to my buddy’s abode, anticipating ruminant Armageddon on the approach to the Rock of Ages! This fear was augmented by the sight, as we came closer, of a boy racer doing what the title suggests (and, in my fervid imagination, seconds away from wearing a herd!).

Of kine, dead or alive, there was a singular absence, I am jolly relieved to report. No evidence of Boy Racer laminated against carboniferous limestone either.

Never a dull moment, eh?

Sex and Age! Age and Sex!

On By alienorasanthologyIn Age, Sexuality2 Comments

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Photo by freestocks.org on Pexels.com

The very thought of our elders getting it on is off-putting in the extreme. Repugnant, even. Believing, as we unthinkingly do, that sex is the province of young people alone, we view any evidence of coital goings-on in our parents’ – or, gasp, grandparents’! – generation as cringe-worthy.

Let’s face it, when bedecked with dewy youth’s benefits, the inner visions of anyone old – and that’s anyone over thirty when we are in our teens – lustfully engaged is analogous to the mating of Egyptian mummies. When my own parental embarrassments, then in their forties, popped out their youngest, the act under advisement struck me as more akin to necrophilia than anything healthy and genuinely sexy. Visions of WD40, lard, Natron and possible Divine Intervention – all revealing a woefully-poor grasp of biology and a correspondingly dire one of Theology! – nearly unscrambled my almost-sixteen-year-old-mind.

All the books I read at that blessedly innocent and virginal time of my life were, frankly, neither use nor ornament: What with sex before marriage being one of the many Paths to Hell; libido apparently evaporating as one got older – and images of older women looking like Ursula Andress/Ayesha’s ghastly withering in 1965 film ‘She’, I did wonder, briefly, how the human race had lasted as long as it had.

Now? I am old myself, far older than the parental pair were when they hatched Sprog Five – and I will confess that I simply cannot understand why this myth regarding age and sexual aridity has become so widespread.

It is a particularly pernicious piece of poppy-cock, this one, because it can give rise to years, if not decades, of profound terror in women’s minds as they wait for their bits to dry up, drop off, subside and become about as enticing as the dust collecting in a hoover.

Old Wives’ Tales do not always get it right, you know! I shudder to think of the thousands of women who writhe and weep in traumatised horror throughout the delights of the menopause, under the assumption that their desire for a bit of jolly rogering will go the same way as their fertility – and that the rest of their lives will be spent as erotic also-rans in the great race towards horizontal pleasure.

Rot! Rubbish! Raucously wrong! ‘Age,’ – as Shakespeare had it in describing Cleopatra  – ‘shall not wither her, nor custom stale…’

I am sixty-one – and currently, as the euphemism goes, ‘between men’ (from choice) – but, I am damned if I am going to allow my chronological years, or the world’s tabloid-generated dreary societal mores, to dictate what I can, or cannot, do with my body, my sexuality, my life.

Age and sex! Go for it, I say! Enjoy the very real boon conferred by loss of inner eggs! Get roistering and rollicking in the sure knowledge that the kids have now buggered off (and are, no doubt, making the beast with two backs in their own abodes) – and, in many cases, the day job (as opposed to being on the job!) is now but a far-distant memory!

Sex and age: a natural pairing. After all, the finest wines turn into unheard-of nectarous ecstasy when allowed to mature!