Putting it about a bit

21 September, 2015 (19:36) | All articles | By: Stuart Fraser

THERE are few things in life of which I have been certain. One of them is this: be very careful where you put your old man.

Now I will be brutally frank with you, and say that there have been times when Stuart Junior has seen the light of day – however briefly – in circumstances of which I am not proud. I speak as a former rugby player, from which you will understand that the good Bishop was frequently required to make public appearances when I was younger.

I will also say, in a spirit of honesty, that my little fellow has led me into more scrapes than I would have liked, and has afterwards forwarded onto my brain – in Woody Allen’s words, ‘The Brain? My second favourite organ’ – matters with which my conscience is far from easy.

And which of us, in truth, can say that we have at all times and in all places kept the trouser snake blamelessly in his basket? I know there are brothers of this place for whom Mr Happy has been a cross between a powerful magnet, the north star and Beelzebub’s sat nav, a pocket rocket thrusting them remorselessly, repeatedly into trouble.

Indeed the guru Captain Kay, who teaches this place of the Coconut Eating Crab, the malevolent deity that rules our fortunes on this planet, had wise words for me when I rang him, 11 years ago this month, to tell him of the birth of my son.

‘Chop it off,’ said the Captain, firmly. ‘What?’, I asked, puzzled, for I was expecting something along the lines of ‘Congratulations, old pal’. ‘Chop it off,’ he repeated, with emphasis. ‘Chop his cock off now. It’ll save him an awful lot of trouble.’

When we spoke later, the Captain agreed he may have been a bit hasty, but as a frequent victim of the cunning wiles of the Dark Lord of Misrule, his advice was heartfelt for he has followed the devil’s sat nav and he has known the reckoning.

However. I feel confident that no Brother – nor Sister, using artificial aids – of this place has ever intruded their person upon the open mouth of a dead pig. I know I haven’t, though I am not prepared to say I wouldn’t have, fuelled with enough alcohol and given the necessary pig.

Whether or not David Hameron – I do apologise – had carnal knowledge of a dead pig’s head need not concern us, then. Who of us can say their upstanding citizen has always been an upstanding citizen?

No, let those without a pole raise the first flag.

What does concern us here are the circumstances in which the alleged insertion took place: the antics of a dinner club for the super-rich extreme right wing, whose boyish cavortings make the average rugby club bar look like the Vatican theological college.

Whether or not Hameron – sorry – belonged to the Piers Gaveston society, named after a medieval nobleman who suffered a painful insertion of his own, doesn’t even matter, for we know for certain that he did belong to the Bullingdon Club, a dinner club for the super-rich extreme right wing, whose boyish cavortings make the average rugby club bar look like the Vatican theological college.

Certainly the sight of the famous picture of Mr Piggy and his mates in their expensive tailcoats sneering loftily at the world around them brings to mind the word ‘cock’ far more definitively than the sight of a pig with a prime ministerial winkie in its, ahem, chops.

Even some right wingers found the Bullingdon’s culture of excess, expense and elitism thoroughly revolting. What are the rest of us supposed to think?

Looking at the behaviour of a super-rich elite who inherited their wealth and status by virtue only of emerging from between the right pair of blue-stockinged thighs, looking at their overwhelming sense of entitlement, listening to their enthusiasm for an archaic club with archaic dress, exclusive rules and appalling behaviour, we can but conclude that shoving the Hameron cock between the cold dead lips of a pig is perhaps the least revolting thing the man has ever done.

The other thing that does concern us is what we could perhaps call the Porcine Conundrum:

Person A pulls a funny face when eating a bacon sandwich. A ravening media ensures that the resulting photo costs Person A a general election, no less.

Person B allegedly sticks his dick into a dead pig’s chops. The man who knew about the allegation ensured it appeared after an election; it only appeared, allegedly, because the author, Lord Ashcroft, was unhappy that the millions he paid into Tory coffers didn’t buy him enough of the power he craved; and the media will be sure to leave their friend well alone in the coming months. I wonder what they’d do if they discovered a prominent Tory had a fondness for cocaine and whores, for a wild example? Something much more lenient than the treatment they’d mete out to a man who couldn’t eat a bacon sandwich, certainly.

Well. None of this surprises us, not even the pig fucking.

And nothing that man Hameron can ever have done is anything like as appalling as what he’s doing now: a London coroner this week directly attributed a disabled man’s suicide to his reaction to being told by the vile lying liar Iain Duncan Smith’s Department for Work and Pensions that he was fit to work, part of this government’s welfare ‘reforms’.

Driving the sick to their deaths, turning backs on dying children, selling our health service: David Hameron may or may not be a pig fucker, but that’s not even close to behaviour as obscene as that of his greedy, selfish, bully-boy bigoted government.

Now then. This is a public service blog, as you know, with information and opinion free at the point of need, shared without fear or favour in a spirit of open and honest debate. That being the case, are any of you prepared to join in a little forum headed ‘The worst place I ever put my parts’?

I’ll get us started. The worst place I ever put my parts was the centre left pocket of the rugby club bar-room pool table. As my opponent bent to line up his shot, my proud member rose like Excalibur from the pocket in front of him. He missed.

Over to you, Brothers and Sisters.



Comment from Old Fiddle
Time September 22, 2015 at 10:24 am

I used to kiss my goat after milking her, but that’s as far as it went…..

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