More Monstrous Lies

Following the so-called 'earthquake' the other night, I see that there was another monster-related incident covered up by the government less than twenty four hours later. This time it was claimed that there was a 'fire' at a gas terminal in Norfolk. Fire my arse - it was actually a giant octopus attack. They're quite common at this time of year as the octopuses migrate to their spawning grounds in the Mediterranean. Anyway, no sooner had the 'fire' been reported, then it was claimed that it was out and the story vanished from the media. A sure sign of a cover-up, I think you'll agree. It really is about time the government came clean about these monster attacks - it's only a matter of time before somebody in the foreign media defies the embargo on reporting them and publishes pictures of that giant newt attack on Cleethorpes, or that army of radioactive zombies which took over the centre of Nottingham the other Saturday night? After all, the Drudge Report had no qualms about revealing that one of the Royal Princes (I can never remember which one is which) was in Afghanistan.

Actually, I can't help but feel that even that leak was actually part of a cover-up. I mean, was it really coincidence that it broke so soon after the 'earthquake' and the 'fire'? Of course not! It was simply a ploy to divert attention away from the monster attacks. Frankly, I'd have been more impressed if it had been revealed that Prince What's-his-name had been fighting the octopus, but obviously, there's no way they'd ever let him get that close to danger. The Taliban in Afghanistan are a far easier foe to face. So, Mr Brown, I'm calling on you to come clean and reveal the truth about these monster attacks. OK, there might be mass panic as a result, but I think that's preferable to all these lies.

The Day the Earth Moved

So now I can add 'earthquake survivor' to my CV, after experiencing last night's tremors. Even though I live some two hundred miles from the epicentre of the Great British Earthquake, my house still shook, windows and doors rattling alarmingly. I must admit that I found the whole experience highly traumatic, having no idea of what was going on. Having recently seen Cloverfield, my first thought was that a monster had come up the Thames and was now devouring London, and that what I'd felt were the shock waves from Canary Wharf collapsing. Consequently, I was quite disappointed when I finally thought to turn the radio on, only to learn that it was an earthquake. I was really hoping that I'd be able to turn on BBC News 24 and see live pictures of the Metropolitan Police attempting to arrest a marauding sea monster for criminal damage, disorderly conduct and breach of the peace. They'd probably also try to get it on some trumped up terrorism charges and pin several unsolved murders on the creature.

A monster attack on the capital would have presented a good test for the Mayoral candidates. Doubtless incumbent Ken Livingstone, known for his love of newts, would have tried negotiating with the giant amphibian, attempting to come to some kind of settlement involving a special rate on the congestion charge and free bus travel in return for it only eating Tory voters. His main rival, the buffoon Boris Johnson, would simply have blustered at it, waving his hands ridiculously before, hopefully, getting his head bitten off. No doubt his headless body would have continued to run around waving its hands ridiculously. This being Britain, I can guarantee that several committees would have had to be convened to decide whether combating monsters fell within the jurisdiction of the Greater London Authority or the government - why should tax payers across the country be expected to foot the bill for what's a purely London problem?

Of course, it might have been a monster attack rather than an earthquake. It wouldn't be the first time that the government had engaged in a massive conspiracy to cover up such an incident. Remember that massive explosion at Buncefield a couple of years ago? They tried to blame that on an oil storage facility exploding. I revealed the real facts - that it was the result of an attack by a giant ape - in The Sleaze (see Monster Mash). Mark my words, with global warming and climate change, this sort of thing will happen a lot more, as monsters are forced to leave their traditional habitats like Japan and the US east coast, and head for Britain, instead. If the polar ice cap continues to melt, we're in real trouble - it's a well known fact that many giant prehistoric monsters have been trapped in glaciers and icebergs for millions of years. The government has to act now and put into place proper contingency plans to deal with this potential threat - a Ministry of Monster Defence needs to be set up now and funds allocated for the development of vital defences like ultrasonic blasters and laser cannon. It's the only hope of survival we have!

Rugger Buggerers

I've always disliked Rugby - the game, obviously, not the town, which I've never visited - and I've disliked the people who played it even more. When I was at school I was forced to play the accursed game by sadistic PE teachers. I've never been any good at sports and I'm not a team player - participating in this so-called 'sport' reinforced both tendencies. The rules were never explained properly - if you questioned anything you were shouted at - and it seemed to me that most of us were there simply to be used as 'cannon fodder' for the favoured elite who were destined for the school team to beat the shit out of. It didn't help that a kid a few years ahead of me had been paralysed from the neck down playing this 'game' - a fact which didn't exactly increase my enthusiasm for rugby. Of course, if you weren't good at rugby, you didn't get on the school team, you weren't one of the 'chosen' and tended to get treated like a second class citizen by staff and fellow pupils alike.

All of my prejudices about rugby and rugby players was confirmed today by a sports report in The Guardian. According to this a St Helens player had been "found guilty of making unnecessary contact with an opponent's testicles for the second match in seven months"! What the fuck constitutes "unnecessary contact with an opponent's testicles" for God's sake? Accidentally brushing your knee against them (bearing in mid they're covered by a pair of shorts, athletic support and protective box, I'd imagine that "accidentally" touching somebody's nads would be a trifle difficult. However, the article went on to tell us that the player had already served a three match ban after squeezing another player's testicles during a match! Apparently it has now been ruled that any "attack on testicles now graded the most serious example of behaviour contrary to the spirit of the game." Well, no shit Sherlock! From what I gathered about the 'rules' of rugby, whilst it was a contact 'sport', that contact consisted of 'tackling' opponents, which involved physically pulling them down, not fondling their knackers. Perhaps there's some confusion over the sporting term 'tackling' and 'tackle' as a euphemism for male genitalia. Rugby players aren't very bright, after all.

Now, I might be doing rugby players an injustice here, as the incident described concerned Rugby League and what I had inflicted on me at school was the Union code. However, there's no denying that Union's scrum has always looked suspiciously like some ritualised form of mass buggery to me. Maybe that's why they have to grab each other's gonads in League - there's no opportunity for surreptitious anal sex in a line out. The fact is, though, that these testicle abuse incidents simply confirm my long held belief that all rugby players are all repressed homosexuals. Think about it - they're clearly insecure about their sexuality, as witnessed by their exaggeratedly 'masculine' behaviour; they enjoy predominantly all-male activities, which often involve 'bonding'; and they like handling an obviously testicle-shaped ball. Add to that the faux-buggery of the scrum and I rest my case. Rugger Buggerers the lot of 'em!

Suicide Club

The internet is still evil! Not only does it corrupt your children by serving them up porn, and allow paedophiles into their bedrooms via instant messengers and social networking sites, but now it is actually killing them, too! At least this is what the media would have you believe. On the basis of no evidence whatsoever (other than that the victims might have been members of mySpace), the press decided that a spate of teenage suicides in Wales were linked to the net. Online suicide pacts! Internet suicide communities! Hysterical headlines and ludicrous speculation followed. Apparently, in addition to those chatrooms full of child molesters waiting to groom kiddies unfortunate enough to stray into them, the message boards devoted to recruiting terrorists and sites promoting eating disorders, there are also whole online communities geared up to help young people top themselves. Even worse, they actually encourage them to take their own lives.

Now, quite why anybody would conspire to do such a thing, and, in particular target the young people of a specific small town, is beyond me. But hey, this is the wonderful paranoid world of the British tabloids we're talking about. Having said all that, I do recall that in You Only Live Twice (the novel, not the film), Blofeld has gone totally bonkers and has set up a 'suicide garden' on a Japanese island, to which all manner of morbid types flock in order to take their own lives. So, I suppose there could be some super-rich, completely insane super-villain out there with a grudge against Bridgend. Nevertheless, on balance I find these stories ludicrous. Quite frankly, it would be more credible if the papers were to suggest that the teens of Bridgend were being targeted by a Freddie Kruger-style demon, who is driving them all to suicide. (Perhaps he's the vengeful ghost of some poor bugger driven to take his own life by the anti-social behaviour of local youths).

OK, so if not the work of an evil web genius, could there be online 'suicide societies' created on social networking sites by like minded souls? It's possible, but unlikely. From a purely practical point of view, it would be pretty difficult to keep such groups going - membership would be in rapid and permanent decline. (Perhaps that explains the reported decline in Facebook memberships?) All of this media speculation ignores the simple fact that all the victims of this so-called 'suicide cluster' lived in Wales. Not surprisingly, Wales has a higher than average suicide rate. Having been there, I can fully understand that. Even worse, they didn't live just anywhere in Wales, they lived in Bridgend. For God's sake - have you ever been there? So there you are, these tragic events most likely have cock-all to do with that evil internet. Frankly, I don't know why all those online evil-doers don't just get together to create a really effective threat - they could groom kiddies to become a new force of very thin suicide bombers...

Modern Blogs Are Still Rubbish

Just lately I've found myself more than a little, shall we say, jaded, by what I've been encountering on the web. Now, I know the whole point of blogging is to allow anyone to publicly publish their thoughts, but there really do seem to be an ever increasing number of incredibly self-important blogs out there. I wouldn't mind, but they are posting utter shit, dressed up to look as if it is significant. Indeed, the whole world of blogging seems to be getting ever more incestuous, spending most of its time commenting on itself and agonising over its own perceived problems - as if anybody in the real world gave a toss! Just recently, for instance, I've kept running into blogs obsessing over some incident in which a teenaged travel blogger writing for The Guardian got flamed with lots of negative comments, apparently impugning his abilities and alleging that he only got the job through nepotism (his father is writer on the same paper).

This has led to all sorts of online hand-wringing, debating whether this sort of negative commenting is wrecking the net. Others are claiming that it shows people don't want 'amateur' content any more, they want proper, professionally written content. This, in turn, has led to a defence of blogging's cult of the amateur. The bottom line is that nobody outside of a handful of bloggers really gives a flying fuck. For starters, as far as I can see, the blogs and message boards at The Guardian, in common with most other sites of the type, are dominated by a closed coterie of regulars who most certainly don't represent the opinions of the wider web, let alone the public. As far as negative commenting and flaming go, there's no need for a debate on the subject, the people who do it are knob heads. The problem is easily dealt with through stricter moderation. I'm afraid I don't subscribe to the widely held misconception that keeping the web free means allowing anybody to express any views they like. That isn't free speech. Indeed, allowing morons with offensive 'opinions' to dominate message boards and comments with their dribblings is itself a threat to free speech, as it crowds out rational discussion and tends to discourage many people from contributing.

Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that the level and nature of much online discourse is being dominated and distorted by a relatively small number of 'big name bloggers' (who are still nobodies in the real world), who have a vested interest in keeping the whole blogosphere parochial and self-obsessed. Frankly, I'm glad not to be a part of it and have no intention of joining in. Sleaze Diary's splendid isolation will proudly continue!

Happy Birthday, Doc Sleaze!

Yes indeed folks, it is once again that day of the year when Sleaze Towers reverberates to sounds of joy as I celebrate having survived another year. I must admit that I did the main celebrating last night, as Spurs are playing a UEFA cup match live on TV tonight, (indeed, I'm watching it as I type this), but I might still slip out after the match for a quick pint. Mind you, I'm still feeling a little queasy - a combination of several pints yesterday and watching Cloverfield and its disorientaing camera work this afternoon. Anyway, getting back to the point, I may be a year older, but am I any wiser? Wiser about what - life, the world, the human race? Probably not, on all counts. Indeed, with regard to the world in general, if anything, I feel as if I understand it less than I did a year ago. I think that's just a natural function of ageing - things change, but we feel less inclined to change with them, or even be bothered to understand those changes, with every year that goes by. This has nothing to do with being a curmudgeonly git, it's just that over the years most of us see so many changes, that we gradually come to realise most of them are simply fashions, rather than progress. They turn out to have no substance. The staus quo will eventually be restored. I've learned that it is better to reserve my energies for more important things.

But if I'm no wiser about the past, what about the future - is that any clearer now? Well, as far as the future of The Sleaze is concerned, maybe. I'm still working on a re-styling which, hopefully, will make the site easier to read and easier to navigate, as well as giving it a more 'contemporary' look. Completely re-worked templates and CSS are currently under construction, whilst my frustration with the limitations of current Content Management Systems (CMS) has led me to start learning PHP and SQL, with a view to customising my own back-end. How long I'll keep the site going is another question - it'll be eight years old this April, which, in web terms, is ancient. I think that my writing pace is finally beginning to slacken, so it's possible that I might reduce the number of stories I write every month. The alternative is to find additional writers. Mind you, in eight years I haven't found anyone who comes even close to producing the kind of material I want. Whatever happens with The Sleaze, I have every intention of maintaining a web presence. Indeed, I have several unrealised - and much cherished - web projects I've been unable to realise beacause of the amount of time I have to devote to The Sleaze. You never know, if I manage to get more manageable, dynamic, version of The Sleaze up and running, I might finally have the time for these projects. Until then, it's full steam ahead (once my birthday celebrations are over, naturally!)

Last of the Hairy Sex Symbols...

Apparently there's hope for me yet in my quest to become an international sex symbol. I'd feared that the advancing years and waistline, combined with my thinning hair had seriously damaged my chances. Yet this week I learned that Lily Allen apparently likes balding older slightly unfit blokes. Even better, she likes men with hairy backs. At last, a young woman with taste. For years, like other naturally hairy men, I've had to suffer the disdain and jibes of the fashionable and beautiful, who are forever denouncing hairy backs as unattractive and a major turn off. Hopefully, now that someone as obviously intelligent, attractive and talented as Ms Allen has come out of the closet as a lover of hirsute men, maybe the tide will turn. I could finally be in demand with the jet set - at long last I could have super models all over me.

Of course, if I hadn't made that New Year's resolution to swear off of romance (those hypothetical super models would just be sex, obviously - probably hypothetical sex, as that's the only type I get these days), I'd be busy e-mailing Ms Allen:

"Dear Lily,

I konw you're a bit weird and your old man scares the shit out of me, but what the hell, I am in possession of a hairy back, thinning locks and I'm well past it. Clearly, we're a match made in heaven, as you are definitely my type. Any woman with a pulse is my type - I'm on the outskirts of desperation city these days...

Your Sincerely
Doc Sleaze"

Sadly, there are probably analarming number of balding, hairy middle aged blokes sending similare-mails to her in all seriousness she announced her predilection for the hirsute male.

Scream and Cream Again?

Have you ever been kept awake by the noisy nocturnal antics of your neighbours? What was worse - the banging of the headboard against the wall or the incessant moaning? Or are you really unlucky and live next door to a screamer, with every climax punctuated with an ear-splitting shriek which sets dogs barking for a five-mile radius? What’s the solution? Its not as if you can casually mention it over the garden fence - “Lovely day, see the chrysanthemums are in bloom again. Oh, and by the way, do you think you could shag a little more quietly please?” You could always resort to law, as Cindy Crawford’s neighbours allegedly once did. But why not save your money and simply record the offending sounds. You could then play them back loudly when you know her husband/boyfriend is alone next door. That way he’ll think she’s having an affair with you. Even better, you could actually make some money by selling those piercing screams to a porn movie producer.

Its a little known fact that many porn actresses, although talented physical performers, are completely unable to produce satisfactory vocal performances to match. Consequently, producers and directors are always on the lookout for suitable vocal doubles, sometimes even resorting to secretly recording members of the public. Sound engineer Vernon Diddle remembers spending a large part of the 1970s and 1980s hanging around outside nurses’ homes and girls school dormitories with his microphone, hoping to hear some good screaming. He was arrested at least three times by the police during this period, and had his sound equipment confiscated twice. “Whenever a friend told me of a noisy female neighbour, I’d rush around there with my equipment”, he recalls. “It was a simpler and safer method of getting the material!” As a result of his efforts, Diddle has been able to build up an unparalleled library of sexual vocal effects, which he now licences to producers for use in adult films. “Its always important to get the appropriate type of scream”, he enthuses. “The sound of a woman reaching orgasm is quite different to the type of scream you get when they’re taken up the arse. Also, the timbre and volume of the scream varies according to the size of the member involved.” Its this attention to detail which has made Diddle indispensable to the industry.

Not all porn stars need to be dubbed. One celebrated performer during the 1980s was Magna Cum Loudly, perhaps best remembered for her 1988 classic Rear Entry. Diddle recalls working with her on several films: “She had the most amazing voice, she could set off car alarms up to three streets away when she climaxed! I once saw her shatter glass when she did it doggy-style with Johnny Thunderbox in Anal Angel - she even cracked the camera lens!” Of course, it is not just female screams which are required, often male performers vocal talents are also sadly lacking and suitable doubles have to be found. Here the task is often more difficult than with women. “You can never tell what type of screamer a man is,” says Diddle. “Secret FBI surveillance recordings I’ve obtained show that manly John F Kennedy, for instance, squealed like a girl when ejaculating, even with Marilyn Monroe, whereas secret recordings I made of King of Camp Kenneth Williams shows he bellowed like a moose during sex with Joe Orton!” Diddle has now made his sound library available on the web at www.sexscreamers.com.

Sweet Love

"God damn, it may have been dark, but I'd swear it was Warren Beatty I startled raiding my hives," claims Texas apiarist Hank Wangold. "The critter was caught in my flash light beam for a second - a look of panic in his eyes and his balls dripping with honey - before he ran off!" Despite the honey clearly having his pants around his ankles, he was able to out pace the sixty eight year old Texan, and escaped into the night, leaving a ruined beehive behind him. "That's the fifth one so far this year," grumbles Wangold. "I didn't get sight of the critters the other times, but one of my neighbours reckoned he had a sight of that Alice Cooper running into his corn field, honey all down the front of his pants, after the third hive was attacked last month." Apiarists all over the US have been suffering similar attacks, with many being forced out of business due to their losses. Although initially blamed on bears, experts now believe that most of the raids have been carried out by celebrities. "A bee keeper in Pasadena managed to get footage of an attack on his infra-red security cameras," says Professor Larry Porker, bee expert from the University of Alabama. "It clearly showed what appeared to be Jim Belushi tearing off the top of a hive and shoving his penis into the mass of agitated bees! He manages to hold it there for nearly two minutes before the pain gets too much and he runs screaming into the night."

Naturally, Belushi's agent has denied that the figure in the video is his client, adding that Mr Belushi's recent hospitalisation and subsequent wide-legged walk was the result of minor burns sustained in a barbecuing accident. The agent, along with many other commentators, has also questioned why his client - or any other celebrity, for that matter - would want to expose their genitalia to multiple bee stings? "I blame that Mick Jagger," explains Porker. "Ever since it came out that back in the 1980s he'd tried sticking his manhood into a bee-filled bamboo shoot in an attempt at penis enlargement, every B-lister and washed up rock star has been trying the same thing." Whilst there has been no word on whether the 'treatment' has been effective, its impact on the United States' bee-keeping industry has been devastating. "Once a hive has suffered one of these assaults, the bees abandon it completely," says Porker. "Often apiarists don't realise that they have been the victims of an attack until they check their hives after the winter, only to find them empty!" Wangold isn't surprised at the bees' reaction. "I don't blame the poor bastards," he says. "I think I'd do the same damn thing if some degenerate Hollywood bastard stuck his cock through my letter box and waved it around, busting up the place!" With no end in sight to the attacks, Wangold and his fellow bee keepers are threatening reprisals. Already, Nickleback lead singer Chad Kroeger - suspected of defiling a bee hive in Arkansas - has been attacked in his home by two men, who first subdued him by blowing smoke through his letterbox. He was unable to identify his attackers, who hit him over the head with a giant honeycomb, as their faces were obscured by bee keepers hats.

To Hell With Love!

We're rapidly approaching that day again, the one that all us singles dread, the 14th of February. St Valentine's bloody day. As I've mentioned here before, the whole day is an ordeal if you aren't a couple. It's twenty four hours of being bombarded with bollocks about how wonderful it is to be in love, etc. Yeah, rub it in, why don't you? Quite frankly, I don't know why hordes of happy couples don't just gather outside my house, waving placards saying 'Single Weirdo', chanting 'You sad bastard, you', and throwing those heart-shaped chocolates at my windows. At least I'd be safe inside, any poor single bastard caught out in the open would undoubtedly be hunted down by packs of 'loving couples', and beaten to death with those heart-shaped balloons. The more I think about it, the more I suspect that the St Valentine's Day Massacre in 1929 was actually a hit on a bunch of unfortunate singles by some 'loved up' couples, rather than being the result of a gang war between Al Capone and 'Bugs' Moran.

I really do think this annual bombardment of sickly 'romantic' schlock constitutes bullying. If any other demographic was subjected to such an assault upon their lifestyles it would be deemed 'racist' or 'sexist'. But apparently it's OK to harass single people and drive them to the brink of suicidal depression. What we really need is a day devoted to the joys of singlehood to counter balance the horror of Valentine's Day. There could be non-sentimental cards which we singles send ourselves to celebrate our singleness. And balloons. We could all carry them to show that we're single and proud. But seriously, having made a resolution to give up on fantasies of romance this year, I'm not going to allow myself to be bullied this Valentine's day. I can now honestly say that for me, being single is a lifestyle choice, and I'm damned if I'm going to be made to feel ashamed of it! To Hell with love!

Shoot 'Em Up

Hardly a week seems to go by without the news carrying a report of another multiple shooting in the US. It always seems to be the same - some dissatisfied individual harbouring unspecified grudges goes on a rampage with his legally owned firearm and exacts his revenge upon either society in general, or on specific individuals, by shooting a number of people. Often institutions such as schools, colleges, postal depots and the like are the location/target of the gunmen. Inevitably, these incidents are used by the British media to illustrate our cultural superiority over the US - obviously, we are civilised enough to have gun control and have fewer uneducated rednecks running around, at least, that seems to be the sub-text of the news reports. Personally, though, I don't buy it. Trust me, those Yankee Doodle Dandys aren't stupid. I know, I've been over there. Whilst I've never met any hillbillies there, I have encountered lots of extremely intelligent and well educated people. None of whom seemed to have any desire to go on homicidal rampages. So, clearly there must be some other reason why they allow just about anybody to own a firearm. OK, I know all that business about the Constitution and the 'right to be arms', not to mention the persistence of the frontier mentality, and the pervasiveness of violent crime. But let's be brutally frank: that's all bollocks.

The truth is that gun rampages are actually a form of culling. Think about it - the only people who get shot are too infirm, too stupid or too unfit to simply run away and hide when they see a crazy man with a gun coming. By getting rid of them, the US is ensuring that only its fittest citizens survive. This is particularly significant when you bear in mind the number of these massacres which occur in schools and colleges: the unfit are removed from the gene pool before they have had a chance to procreate and cause further genetic pollution. Now, I know what you're going to say - the flaw in this thesis is that the person doing the culling is surely exactly the sort of person you'd want removed from the country's genetic heritage, yet they survive. Hah! That's the genius of the system - in reality the shooters are either gunned down by the police, shoot themselves, or are captured and executed. If they're lucky enough to commit their crimes in a state without the death penalty, they'll find themselves banged up in a maximum security prison or secure mental institution for life. Either way, the chances of having sex anywhere other than up the jacksie are minimal, and the last time I checked, you couldn't reproduce through the back door. So, no replication of their defective genes. Job done! All-in-all, a pretty clever scheme - eugenics without resort to concentration camps. It all looks as if it is the result of random acts of violence perpetrated by psychopaths - how can the government be held responsible for that? And it is working - how else is it that the US leads the world in so many fields of endeavour? Why do their sportsmen and women win so many gold medals? Why do their armed forces sweep all before them in war after war? Because they've weeded out those weak genes, that's why! Bear that in mind next time a US shooting spree is reported - they're not all crazy, they're just improving the breed!

An Unholy Row

So, that hairy hippie in Canterbury is 'shocked' over the reaction to his comments that it was 'inevitable' that some aspects of Islamic Sharia law would have to be introduced in some parts of the UK. Well, no shit, Sherlock - you didn't think that would be controversial? The reaction of the right wing press has been predictable but, leaving aside these knee-jerk reactions and the inevitable headlines ranting on about how our British culture is being undermined, the real issue here is the fact that Britain's most senior cleric seems to think that religion (any religion) should in any way inform the law. One the fundamental planks of our constitution is separation of church and state - it is for the latter to frame laws, not the former. What many would consider to be Christian ideas undoubtedly incorporated into British law. However, ultimately it is for Parliament, and most precisely the House of Commons, a secular body, to make laws.

And thank God for that! I mean, really, would you honestly want any of these religious fruit cakes to have anything to do with framing our laws? If some of those C of E nutters had their way we'd be burning homosexuals at the stake and stoning atheists to death in the street. Do we really want to risk living in a country where the God squad can legislate the Theory of Evolution, or any other inconvenient scientic research which might call the Bible into question, out of existence? Of course not. No, the better solution would simply be to disestablish the Church of England, kick the Bishops, Rabbis and other purveyors of dubious ghost stories out of the Lords and ban the teaching of all religions in state schools. Getting back to the original point, the Archbishop must be incredibly naive if he really thought that a) religion has any place in law and, b) that this view wouldn't be controversial. But then again, this is the week in which the new Housing Minister expressed surprise at discovering that many people who live in social housing are unemployed or low paid. Well, fuck my hat, I never knew that!

Off the Wrist 4

Which Spice Girl does it for you during the old five-knuckle shuffle? That’s what we want to know before the Spice Girls reunion tour finally grinds to a halt. Did their recent triumphant return bring back fond memories of your 1990s self-pleasuring? Is it Sporty, Posh, Scary, or Baby who gives you the best head on your handy shandy? Do they still do it for you? Do you imagine performing sexual gymnastics with lithe Mel C? Are you turned on by the icy aloofness of Posh Spice Victoria Beckham, (who, according to unconfirmed and doubtless completely unfounded football terrace chants, takes it up the bum)? Is the thought of leather-clad dominatrix Mel B tying you to an iron bedstead and giving you a damn good thrashing what gets you through the night? Perhaps you take after Gary Glitter and imagine giving a good hard caning to school uniform clad Emma? Or perhaps it is the thought of Ginger Spice Geri Haliwell giving you a tit-wank with her ample bosom whilst singing her number one hit “Lift Me Up” which gets you to the vinegar stroke every time.

Maybe it wasn’t a Spice Girl you thought of all those years ago of whilst bashing the bishop, maybe it was a three-in-a-bed romp with those naughty Appleton sisters from All Saints. What about the Celtic charms of Irish songstresses B*witched - dressed as nuns! A good seeing to was just what those Catholic girls needed, eh guys? Was it the thought of cavorting naked in a grain-silo with jail-bait Billie which gets you smiling like a wanking Jap? Which current pop totty does it for you nowadays? Maybe you’d like to get down and – quite literally – dirty with Amy Winehouse, or perhaps a spanking session with Girls Aloud gets your wanking spanners working. Whichever pop-totty it is you like to think of when you shake hands with the Devil, let us know. We’ll publish the results in a future post here and find out exactly who is top of the pop-shots! (Actually, don’t let us know, as we don’t give a toss - we’re just after a cheap laugh with this item. Mind you, if you do have any really bizarre masturbatory fantasies involving female pop-stars to share with us....)

The Adventures of Nude Man

Metropolis had Superman, Gotham City could boast of Batman, now Lewisham too, appears to have acquired its very own superhero - Nude Man. Recent weeks have seen a spate of sightings of this exciting new crimefighter - whose true identity remains a mystery. Local resident Thomas Michaels claims to have seen Nude Man tackle a potentially dangerous beggar who was harassing pedestrians in Lewisham High Street one afternoon. “This scruffy lice-ridden drunk bloke was staggering around, calling people bastards and stuff because they wouldn’t give him money, when this naked man came running out of some nearby public toilets.” The terrifying sight of a naked superhero, his mighty super-tackle swaying up and down threateningly, apparently caused the beggar to flee in terror. “I don’t know what would have happened if Nude Man hadn’t turned up,” says Micheals. “The situation could have got very nasty, I’m sure that beggar was about to start calling people arseholes - who knows where that could have led?” Despite these and other eyewitness accounts the authorities in Lewisham remain sceptical as to the existence of Nude Man. “We have had no reports of crimes being foiled by naked crimefighters,” said Chief of Police Ron Nadge. “However, there have been reports of a streaker in the area and several complaints of indecent exposure from local women. I would urge the public not to tackle dangerous criminals themselves, especially not when naked. Leave that sort of thing to the Police.”

Nonetheless, many remain convinced that Nude Man exists and is making the streets safe for them. Local superhero expert Jim Bowman believes that the authorities are deliberately covering up the existence of the unclad crusader. “They are worried that he’s making them look inefficient,” Bowman told Sleaze Diary. He says that the police have desperately been trying to identify Nude Man, claiming that he has proof that during May they held an unusual identity parade at Lewisham Police Station. “They lined up six likely suspects and got them to strip from the waist down, whilst eyewitnesses were asked if they recognised any of the todgers - its his most frequently described feature,“ Bowman claimed. Police have allegedly now put together a photo-fit of Nude Man’s genitalia from eyewitness descriptions. Lewisham Mayor Dan Knuckler, however, maintains that there is no superhero activity in his borough. “Nude Man is a hoax,” he recently told the press. “The only people going naked in public in this borough are sick perverts who enjoy frightening old ladies in the park, and they will be arrested and dealt with by the courts. People like Jim Bowman are highly irresponsible. I don’t know what his motivation is in stirring up public panic with his ludicrous allegations!” Nevertheless, many disagree with their Mayor and say they are thankful for Nude Man’s intervention in local crime. “I’ll take him over the police any day – those buggers only turn up when it’s too late, if at all. Nude Man doesn't have to be called – he just appears whenever a crime is committed. That’s what I call proper crime prevention,” comments Lewisham newsagent Jake Dilljock, who has witnessed many of Nude Man’s exploits first hand. “I’m telling you, this place was overrun with muggers, flashers and sex offenders before he turned up. Trust me, It wasn’t safe for women to walk the streets at night before he started getting his cobblers out.”

For more of Nude Man's adventures, read Naked Justice over at The Sleaze!

Ghoul Without a Groin

I'm a bit pressed for time today, so I thought I'd treat you all to a review of another item from my DVD collection. This one's a little-known low-budget shocker from 1971: Ghoul Without A Groin.

Whilst Hammer and other horror producers spent the early 1970s attempting to pep up their standard shockers with bared breasts, bums and lashings of lesbianism, usually with indifferent results, independent skin flick producer Mapatasi (best known for their saucy sex comedies) came up with this effectively nightmarish combination of hardcore action and schlock horror shudders. Ghoul Without a Groin opens with local Police Inspector Jack Horn investigating a series of mysterious deaths in the vicinity of a US Air Force base in Britain. The victims seem to have choked to death and large amounts of apparently human semen have been found in their stomachs. Several local school children also claim to have been sexually molested by a strange unseen creature which apparently lurks in the bushes of a local park. After several servicemen from the air base are arrested for exposing themselves to local spinsters - but have no recollection of the incidents when questioned by the police - Horn suspects that sinister military experiments might lie behind the strange goings on. Convinced that leaked radioactive material from American nuclear weapons have created a race of mutant sex fiends, the local villagers, urged on by local wheelchair-bound scientist Professor Hammerhead, attempt to storm the base.

However, the US Air Force base proves to be a red-herring and Professor Hammerhead is revealed as the true culprit after Horn joins forces with base commander Colonel Sam Sollicker to investigate the Professor’s mysterious clinic for the rehabilitation of paraplegic war veterans. At this point the film - which hitherto had followed a fairly standard horror/mystery format (save for a couple of hardcore sex scenes involving Horn and his girlfriend - a nurse at the US base) - topples over into nightmare. Hammerhead has been carrying out experiments which allow male patients paralysed from the waist down to engage in sexual activities by focusing their frustrated erotic energies into a physical form - a type of virtual energy penis. There are several disturbing scenes of screaming women volunteers being brought to orgasm by phantom penises as wheelchair-bound men with electrodes attached to their heads are exposed to non-stop hardcore sex images as part of their ‘therapy’. Unfortunately, these invisible ‘energy penises’ have begun to take on a life of their own, appearing unbidden to rampage around the local countryside, fatally molesting innocent victims as they attempt to enact their creators’ repressed sexual urges. Finally, after an unexpected power surge during an experiment, the creatures become visible - taking the form of disembodied male genitalia. Hammerhead is killed by his creations and Horn, Sollicker, Horn’s girlfriend and several villagers are besieged in a local church by the rampant penis monsters...

Unseen for many years due to legal wrangles, Ghoul Without A Groin has attained virtually legendary status amongst aficionados of early 1970s skin flicks. Regarded as one of the few pictures to successfully combine the adult and horror genres, seen again on this video release, it does not disappoint. The effects work showing the penis monsters humping along the ground like inch worms and slithering down chimneys to gain access to buildings, are surprisingly effective. There are several graphic sequences at the film’s climax showing them killing their victims by wrapping themselves around their necks before plunging down their throats. In one especially memorable moment, the vicar is suffocated by a giant scrotum, whilst his wife is engulfed by penis monsters which attack her every orifice. Another cult classic from the golden age of Brit skin flicks - the 1970s. Recommended!

Speechless Again

I must apologise for my recent absence from the web and the lack of updates both here and at The Sleaze, but I'm afraid that, thanks to British Telecom (BT), I've been without either a telephone or broadband since Friday. According to BT it was due to 'a fault at the exchange' and that they had no intention of doing anything about it until Monday! However, when I returned home from visiting my mother this evening, I found that my line had mysteriously been reconnected. Of course, there was no fault at the exchange - I know from bitter experience that this is simply BT's catch-all excuse for outages. Line faults originating at the exchange rarely disconnect lines completely and rarely only affect a single line. I suspect the truth was a cock up in which someone decided to disconnect me, despite the fact that my bill is paid up to date. Obviously, they aren't going to admit to a mistake and will doubtless claim that my early reconnection is testament to their efficiency. Bollocks!

Still, this reconnection at least means that I won't have to spend most of tomorrow in a public call box chasing them up and threatening legal action if they didn't reconnect me. Again, bitter experience has taught me that this is usually the only way to get results from BT. Dealing with their so-called 'customer services' is a trial - they are so utterly contemptuous of their customers it's frightening. Anyway, barring further outages, normal service will be resumed next week, although I'm now well behind schedule in writing the first story for Issue 51 of The Sleaze. Consequently, Sleaze Diary might have to take a back seat for a while. All-in-all, the problems of this weekend really were something I could have done without. BT really are utter bastards!