Another Christmas in Crapchester

Another Christmas in Crapchester from Doc Sleaze on Vimeo.

Yes, it's that time of year again.  Incredibly, I've been making and posting these Christmas films for six years now - and still nobody has watched them!  Anyway, here's the latest, with what is, apparently, my favourite seasonal musical accompaniment.  Having rewatched the previous five films today, I've been surprised by the number of times I've used this arrangement of 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas' on them.  The fact is that I do like it - it has a certain melancholy feel to it which reflects the nature of Christmas: it's both a time for celebration, but also a time for reflection and remembrance of absent friends.  Whilst it raises all sorts of hopes, it is also a reminder of how far short we've fallen of those raised last Christmas.  OK, I've depressed you all enough, time to go off and enjoy the festive spirit.  Personally, I'm planning a quiet night in - with Christmas Eve falling on a Saturday, I can guarantee that the pub will be full of even more oafs than usual at this time of year.  So, a Merry Christmas to you all!

Blast From the Past

I really shouldn't watch daytime TV - I suffered a massive shock whilst watching it today, I was lucky not to suffer a coronary.  I suppose I need to backtrack a bit here and explain why I was watching daytime TV on a weekday.   The long and the short of it is that I'm off work this week.  In part because I've got outstanding leave days I have to use before the start of June, otherwise I'll lose them, and the exterior paintwork of my house badly needs retouching after that never-ending Winter we've just exited.  I say 'retouched', the reality is that it needs to be stripped back to the woodwork and completely repainted.  I also had to finally do something about the jungle my back garden has become.  Anyway, needless to say that as soon as I plan on doing any outdoor work, the weather changes and it pours with rain.  Whilst I made a start on the garden yesterday while it was still sunny, today I was eventually forced back inside, soaking wet and with an aching back.  Where, naturally, I started flicking through the channels, (and this is where the story really starts).

Eventually, I alighted upon ITV3 just in time for the start of the repeat of an episode of Man About the House, a favourite sitcom from my childhood.  Not just any episode, but the very first.  You can't imagine the nostalgia and warm memories watching that familiar opening sequence, (with its highly sexist focus on Sally Thomsett's arse), and hearing that theme music, (actually a piece of library music rather than being specially commissioned - a common practice foe seventies sitcoms), stirred in me.  I loved this series when I was a kid.  It undoubtedly helped that it starred Richard O'Sullivan, fresh from playing the second lead to first Barry Evans, then Robin Nedwell, in the Doctor series, now finally given his own leading role.  I'd almost forgotten how engaging he was as Robin Tripp, and just how attractive Paula Wilcox and Sally Thomsett were.  Then, of course, there were the Ropers, their landlords, played by Yootha Joyce and Brian Murphy, whose appearances were usually the highlight of any episode. 

Man About the House was also notable for being that rarity, a sitcom which had a proper beginning and end.  Rather than being dumped into the middle of the existing situation, as many sitcoms did (and still do), it started with Robin Tripp becoming the new housemate of Chrissy and Jo and, after six series, ended with Chrissy marrying not Robin, but his brother Norman.  An ending which, I have to confess, has resonated through my life ever since.  As I recall, when Robin finally realises that Chrissy really is going to marry his brother and that he himself really does harbour genuine feelings toward her, he remembers how, when he and his brother were children, they'd had a pet dog which he'd loved, but always bitten him, yet it would do anything for his brother.  I know I'm not explaining it very well, but trust me, it was very poignant, as were the closing minutes of the final episode, as he realises that all those unresolved feelings for Chrissy will now never come to anything,  Anyway, the point is that I've been reminded of those scenes several times several times in my life.  Not that I've ever had anyone I have feelings for marry one of my brothers, you understand.  But, too often, I've found myself in the situation of realising that I've left it too late to express my real feelings to someone I've cared for.

But this isn't about my frustrated romantic life, it is about how watching an old sitcom gave me a shock.  Obviously, the shock wasn't being reminded of all those instances of unrequited love, rather it came at the end of the episode when I saw the year of production: 1973.  That's right - 1973!  Forty bloody years ago!  How can it possibly be forty years since I first saw that episode?  OK, I know it was clearly set in the 1970s, (the sideburns alone made that obvious), Richard O'Sullivan even makes a reference to the 'swinging seventies' in the episode, but it just doesn't seem possible that the seventies were that long ago.  I mean, when I was a kid back in the seventies, 'forty years ago' was the 1930s - that strange black and white era before World War Two, when people had outside toilets and lived in slums.  It's a sobering thought that kids today probably think about the seventies - my childhood - the same way!  To them, it must seem like another country, a different world, just as the thirties do to my generation.  Scary stuff!  Like I said, it gave me such a shock!  I wonder if there's another episode on tomorrow?

"I've Been Such a Fool!"

"I've been such a fool!" People in 1940s films always seemed to be saying that. At least, they always seemed to be saying it in the old black and white films the BBC used to show on Sunday afternoons when I was a kid. It usually came near the denouement, as the hero or heroine realised that they'd spent the entire film chasing the wrong partner, and that their true love had been there right in front of them all the time, usually in the form of an impoverished school master, meek maid or the like. I always used to wonder if anybody had ever said such a thing in real life. I mean, it does seem a bit restrained, even by 1940s standards, to simply describe yourself as a fool when caught in a life-changing moment of romantic revelation. I'm guessing that even monochrome people would be a bit more animated when in throes of such emotional turmoil. Even I was moved to exclaim "Fuck!" very loudly upon seeing the sometime object of my affection holding hands with someone else some years ago - and I'm a pretty restrained and sophisticated fellow! The one thing I didn't think was that I'd been a fool.

However, a while ago I found myself quietly uttering those words to myself. I think it was something I was watching on TV which triggered it, but I'm still confused as to how exactly I thought I'd been a fool. Superficially, I thought that I'd been a fool because I'd elected not to fight for the affections of someone I cared about, instead just withdrawing quietly from the picture when it became obvious they were enamoured of someone else, (I think these thoughts were inspired by what was happening on TV at the time). But, the more I've pondered on the matter, the more I've questioned the true nature of my foolishness. In truth, wasn't I foolish in misreading friendship for something else and subsequently deluding myself that the relationship could be anything else? Then I had another thought - perhaps I was a fool for allowing myself to be drawn in by her (for the second time, as it happens)? Looking back, it occurred to me that the times when she seemed closest and keenest to see me, were when nobody else was available. Was I the perennial second choice, good enough to be stand in, but never likely to be the real thing? In which case, I really was a bloody fool. To accept this latter definition of my foolishness would require accepting a degree of manipulativeness I don't think my friend was capable of - so I choose instead to plump for the second explanation of why I was a fool, self delusion. If nothing else, it fits with my track record in affairs of the heart. It also absolves my friend - someone I still care for - from blame. The fact is that she never realised how I felt about her, and I was too foolish to spell it out. A fool indeed! But at least I'm not a monochrome fool! That has to count for something, surely?

The Rules of the Game

I was listening to Jo Whiley in the car this morning (I know, it happens to the best of us), when a topic which has perplexed me a great deal came up - just what significance can us males attach to those Xs women out at the end of text and e-mail messages? Is just one 'kiss' normal? Or does it mean something deeper? This is important stuff to the male of the species - we find it difficult enough to read the signals women send out to us, even when we're face-to-face with them. The advent of things like text-messaging have made it ten times more difficult. What are we supposed to do? Misreading these signs could prove catastrophic! Anyway, Jo Whiley assured me that one 'kiss' is just a friend thing - so I haven't been misreading the signals.

However, can we be sure that all women are consistent on this subject? Just because one of them thinks one 'kiss' is a friendship thing doesn't mean the rest do as well. Clearly, what we need here are a universally agreed set of rules. Right now, the relationship situation is like the early days of football - organised locally with only the broad principles of the game agreed, and lots of local variations on rules. An emotional equivalent to the Football Association needs to be set up to formalise the rules with regard to women. Then, at least, we men will know where we stand. If we're in any doubt as to the intentions of a member of the opposite sex, we can simply consult the rule book. It would be that easy. Just imagine what a better place the world would be with this simple innovation - no misunderstandings, no embarrassment, no heartache. Wonderful! Let's do it!

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.

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!

Crazy Women

I see that Sean Young has booked into rehab after reportedly heckling some poor sod during his acceptance speech at an awards ceremony. Ah, how good it is to know that some things never change! Sadly, we just don't see enough of Sean Young either on or off of the screen these days. I remember the good old days when she was a guaranteed headline generating crazy woman. When she wasn't stalking James Woods (and let's face it, stalking him must take some nerve, after Christopher Walken he's the movie star most likely to turn out to be a psychopath), she always seemed to be getting sacked from some film or other. The only contemporary actress crazier than her was probably Margot Kidder - she ended up on a psychiatric ward after spending time living on the streets, that's really crazy. But I 've never had the same affection for Kidder that I've always had for Sean Young. She's my kind of woman. Crazy. But not quite in a psychiatric sort of way. Nevertheless, she always has that look about her, that she's just about to do something unpredictable and chaotic.

There's no denying it, I do have a thing for crazy women. Some guys are 'tit men', others 'arse men' or 'leg men', wheras, for me, the overriding characteristic I look for in a woman is mental instability. Obviously, I don't mean potential meat cleaver maniac lunacy, or self-harming mental disturbance. No, it's the Sean Young-type unpredictability I like. Such women are always interesting. The most mundane of activities can, with such a woman, become a wild adventure. With them, you are constantly living on the edge. Now, I know that some men might find this sort of relationsip a trifle wearing. But isn't that the point of entering into a relationship, to take you out of your boring everydat existence and instead share someone else's perception of the world? There surely isn't any point in sharing an identical perspective, is there? Getting back to the original point, the press may like to make fun of her, but the fact is that Sean Young is at least interesting, and you can guarantee that life's never dull when she's around. So there you are, let's hear it for the 'crazy' women of the world!

The Power of Dreams

I've mentioned before how much I enjoy dreaming. I especially like that state between fully waking and sleep, as you drift in and out of consciousness, in and out of dreams. Dreams are often at their most vivid during this time. Sometimes they're so vivid that they linger like a real memory. I remember that I once dreamt that Burt Reynolds had been drinking in my local. When I woke up I could remember every detail - what he'd been wearing, the exact spot he'd been standing at the bar, what he'd been drinking, what we'd talked about. For a few minutes I thought that it had actually happened. Then I came to my senses - what the hell would a Hollywood star (even Burt Reynolds) be doing in a back street pub in my town? Nevertheless, I still felt disappointed.

Most frustrating are those dreams you can't quite remember. However, some feeling stirred by them often lingers at the periphery of your consciousness after you wake up. It's like an itch you can't scratch. I remember that I once woke up feeling an incredible sense of loss, as if something wonderfully precious had slipped out of my life. But for the life of me, I couldn't recall anything of the dream which had caused this feeling. I suspect it was about a lost love, a common theme of the dreams I do remember, probably to do with one of the times I let the chance of a relationship with someone I cared deeply about slip through my fingers. Another time, I woke up crying. Again, I remember nothing of the dream behind the tears. Perhaps it was another of those lost loves. Perhaps my subconscious mind could accept that one particular relationship was never going to be, whereas my waking self persists in vainly hoping that it can happen. Who knows?

Joy of Text?

I switched on my rarely used mobile phone the other day and was surprised by the text alert tone chiming at me. I actually got quite excited, not because nobody ever texts me, but because I have a friend who always used to text me, but has fallen silent of late. Naturally, I thought it might be a communication from her. However, I was somewhat disappointed to find that the text was actually from Tesco, whose mobile network I use, telling me about some offer or other to do with reward points. Now, my first reaction was: 'You're a supermarket, I don't want a bloody relationship with you, I just want to take advantage of your low call rates'. But then I thought 'What the hell, nobody else is texting me at the moment', so I texted back and asked them out for a drink.

To be fair, we had quite a good time but I did find them a little, well, cheap. Not to mention a trifle garish. I think in future I might stick to the more refined and upmarket Sainsbury's, despite their friendship with that twat Jamie Oliver. Mind you Sainsbury's does tend to prefer those poncey wine bars. If it's fun down the pub you want, then cheap and cheerful Asda can always be relied upon for a raucous night out. Asda may be somewhat brash, and a bit downmarket in their tastes, but they do know how to have a good time. Anyway, the upshot is that I think I might have to block Tesco's number, or something. They're just a bit too eager, if you know what I mean. That always makes me wary - they could turn out to be a crazy stalker, or something.

As an addendum, I should note that my non-texting friend did in fact reply to a text I sent her immediately. So hopefully, she hasn't entirely abandoned this medium of communication!

Unrequited Love

Surely the most futile waste of emotional energy imaginable. Unrequited love can only result in pain and heartache. Yet still we persist in being sucked into its embrace - even when we know full well that it is utterly pointless. I know all about it. I'm a serial sufferer. The objects of my affection are nearly always unattainable. The stupid thing is that I know this in my heart from the outset, but I just carry on. The bottom line is that unrequited love is like a drug. Although we know that it is bad for us, we can't help but keep going back because those little moments when you delude yourself into believing you've seen a glimmer of hope in something the object of your desire has said and done give you such a high! For a while you are utterly elated, nothing can bring you down. Pretty soon though, they do or say something else which drags you back to reality and plunges you into the depths of despair.

The absolute worst thing about unrequited love, in my experience, is that it completely robs you of the courage of your convictions. The logical thing to do in such situations would simply be to put your cards on the table and tell the object of your misplaced affections how you feel about them. At least then you'll know for sure, once and for all, where you stand. But you don't. You keep pussyfooting around, hoping for those little highs generated by their smiles, laugh or he odd kind word. You keep deliberately reinterpreting everything they say and rewriting your memories to try and 'prove' to yourself that your feelings are reciprocated, thereby generating a few more of those highs. Again, its back to that drug addiction analogy - if you actually speak your mind and reveal your true feelings, you run the risk of losing them completely, and with them the opium of hope that comes from the furtive approach. Of course, we rationalise this in various ways. My usual rationalisation is that if I come out and actually say something, then I'll risk losing a valued friendship, and as I know they don't reciprocate my feelings, its better to suffer in silence and at least retain a friend.

Well, there you have it - a week of downbeat and melancholy posts rounded off with a sad crie de couer! I really need a rest! Hopefully next week I'll be back to my normal offensive self!

Last of The Romantics?

Don't you just love those one-line episode synopses they give for the soaps in the Radio Times? There must be an art to it - the way in which they intrigue and titillate the casual reader. Take the one for yesterday's episode of Eastenders, for instance: "Bradley tries to win back Stacey with a bag of chips and a film". The images that evokes! Just what was he going to do with those chips? Still, on the basis of that synopsis, there's no doubt that Bradley is a pretty smooth operator when it comes to the ladies. A man after my own heart, actually. In my experience, all the flowers, restaurants and jewellery in the world, are no match for a portion of chips when it comes to capturing a lady's heart. In fact, you can tell a great deal from what it is they want to put on the chips. Soy sauce might indicate that they are some kind of eco-warrior, whilst curry sauce hints at fiery tempers, lager swilling and throwing up in the gutter. Maybe even a bit of a slapper (as they say in Eastenders). Mayonnaise on chips is a sure sign of the kind of weirdo to be avoided at all costs. Before you know it, she'll be boiling people's heads up in a saucepan. No, I'm a straightforward salt and vinegar man myself, when it comes to chips. If the lady in question opts for the same, I know I've found a soul mate.

The tricky bit, obviously, is the choice of film. A knocked off DVD of The Opening of Misty Beethoven is going to send the wrong message entirely. If you really must indulge in porn, at least try and go for something like Last Tango in Paris, which you can always pass of as an 'art movie', thereby implying a degree of sophistication on your part. But whatever you do, avoid Nine and a Half Weeks, it is guaranteed to bore both of you to death. Personally, I don't believe that you can beat a good old slice of 1980s zombie cannibal gut gruncher. They have the advantage of being relatively brief - rarely much over eighty minutes - and are ludicrous enough to be able to pass off as being 'ironic' once again implying a degree of sophistication for yourself. The post-modern fascination and occasional acclaim for such pieces of popular culture can make you seem intellectual, without appearing pretentious. (The use of a true art house move, typically three hours of bum-numbing costume drama or social realism, with subtitles, would have the opposite effect). A good alternative to the Italian zombie movie, if you want to appear a bit classier, would be any of Hammer's gothic horrors from the 1950s or 1960s. I ask you, what could be more romantic than the sight of Hazel Court's heaving bosoms as Peter Cushing leers at her in The Curse of Frankenstein? A word of caution here - try and avoid Hammer's post-1970 output which places far more emphasis on lesbian vampires. These are solitary pleasures.

So, there you have it; my fail-safe guide to wooing the modern woman. As I didn't actually see Monday's Eastenders, I haven't a clue if this worked for Bradley. But rest assured, so long as he followed my advice, he'll have won her heart for sure!

Lonesome Tonight?

So, according to the latest research (reported in The Guardian the other day), women tend to choose less successful, less handsome men, as they subconsciously believe that there's less chance of losing them to a career or other women. Speaking from personal experience, I can tell you that this is complete bollocks. Trust me - I'm a perennial under-achiever and I'm no oil painting. Oh yes, I'm also a man. A still single man, at an age when my mother would have hoped that I'd been divorced at least twice. I'm not quite sure which women were consulted in this study (or, indeed, if any women were consulted - its authors were probably merely moderately successful, only averagely handsome, male researchers who have never actually met a woman, let alone spoken to one), but I've found the reality of the situation quite different.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not a misogynist - I love women. I find their company infinitely preferable to that of other men (most of the time). However, the fact is that they tend to see me - a man who apparently fits the profile identified by this research as their ideal mate - as a best friend, or surrogate older brother. Which is fine. Most of the time. It can get very frustrating when said woman fits my profile of ideal mate, though. When it comes to closer relationships, I inevitably find myself edged out by either unfeasibly handsome, successful but smooth types, or fuck ugly, brainless, sport-loving thugs. Which, I suppose, shows that the research might be half-right, as the second type of guy could be described as less successful and not good looking. Not, of course, that I'm letting this situation drive me to despair. Although I did find myself sneaking a look at the Guardian's personal ads the other day. However, the thought of meeting other desperate Guardian readers was enough to remind me of the advantages of being single...

The Hand of Love

Ah, Valentine's Day. That time of year when those of us who are single are made to feel like complete inadequates. The relentless day long emphasis on love and romance seems designed to make you feel like a social pariah. Particularly as you trudge wearily home to your microwaved meal for one and lonely night in front of the TV, glancing at all those couples sat in restaurants and the like, convinced that they're all secretly laughing at you. But little do they know that we sad singles also have our own private rituals for this day. For some, these involve a romantic evening in with their inflatable friend. Others amongst us, however, are somewhat more adventurous, setting up a candle lit table in our dining rooms, with a snatched photograph of the latest object of our unrequited love as the centerpiece of an elaborate heart-shaped arrangement of red roses, which we proceed to whack off over. Just to make it that little bit more romantic, I usually tie a red ribbon in a bow around my cock.

Talking of masturbation (which I do, almost as frequently as I commit the act, being a sad single bastard), I caught part of one of those highbrow documentaries about porn the other day - you know the sort, pretending to be a serious study of a neglected 'art form' as an excuse to show some full on shagging - which featured some 'sexologist' claiming that masturbation was now considered the purest form of sexual activity. Two thoughts crossed my mind upon hearing this. Firstly, since when have they awarded degrees in 'sexology' and can I convert my politics degree? Secondly, I thought, bloody hell, I'm a sex God in the privacy of my own home! After all these years my technique must have been honed to perfection! Getting back to the point, the reason wanking is now so highly regarded in the world of 'sexology' (or, as I like to call it, smut), is that it is entirely about the individual - there is no need to worry about satisfying your partner, or any of that inconvenient stuff. As there is only yourself to please, and the fantasy accompanying the whacking off is entirely yours, masturbation is - in theory- more likely to result in an entirely satisfying experience than other forms of sex. All of which means, surely, that is us single sad gits who are actually enjoying the best sex lives. Hah! Stick that up your red roses!

Phantom Lovers

What is it with men and masks? From The Phantom of The Opera to V For Vendetta, we have a long line of fictional 'heroes' who think that the best way to court women is to wear a mask and whisk them away to some underground lair. Their whole technique seems aimed to scare the bejasus out the objects of their affection - gifts mysteriously left by unseen hand, enigmatic and anonymous notes and love letters, rivals conveniently maimed or murdered, constant secret surveillance from behind paintings, etc. Maybe they think fear is an aphrodisiac? The ultimate test of course, is whether they still fancy the bloke once the mask is gone and the hideously ugly visage revealed.

Interestingly, whilst in certain types of fiction this is presented as somehow 'romantic', in the real world we'd call this sort of thing stalking. Even worse, the whisking away to dank subterranean catacombs seems suspiciously like the abduction fantasies you see on bondage websites (so I'm told). As for all that organ playing the Phantom of The Opera tries to impress Christine with - well, you don't have to be a Freudian to see the significance of that!

The question is, do men really think that being stalked and kidnapped by a masked lunatic is really what women want? Or are these simply the desperate fantasies of inadequate men who think it might be possible to brainwash women into loving them (or at least sleeping with them)? Is the unmasking bit an attempt to reassure themselves that women aren't really so shallow as to judge someone simply by their looks (of course, the woman involved is always stunningly beautiful)? I only ask because, off the top of my head, I can't think of any equivalent fiction where masked women stalk and kidnap men - who eventually fall in love with them despite their hideous facial scarring and baldness. Do women have similar sexual fantasies at all?

Of course, being a misunderstood masked genius who produces a brilliantly witty (but scandalously under-appreciated) satire site from a cellar deep beneath an opera house, my idea of a good date involves chloroform, kidnapping and shackles. Why waste money taking a women out somewhere (where she'll probably only flirt with other men and ignore you for half the evening), when you can chain them up and have their full undivided attention for a couple of hours whilst you show them your fascinating collection of medieval torture instruments?

Did I mention that I was still single?