Download the audio Dollop here

Yesterday was a great day for equality. A member of the Church Of The flying spaghetti Monster won a battle to be allowed to appear in his driving licence photo wearing a colander on his head. He claims that the colander is part of his religious dress and that denying him this right would be discrimination. Fortunately the powers that be saw sense and, after a bout of indecision, acquiesced. I did think about trying to conduct another interview with a member of the Church Of The flying Spaghetti Monster, but thought that two blog posts in a fortnight containing loads of pasta puns might test your tolerance levels a bit too much.

Last night I listened to some music on Tidal (which is a service similar to Spotify but with better audio quality, and it also pays double the money to artists).

I noticed how many versions there were of Ultravox’s Vienna. I don’t mean cover versions, but remastered versions of the exact same song. There was the original 1980 master, then a 2003 remaster, a 2008 remaster, and a 2009 remaster. I can understand why they might have wanted to remaster the original 1980 recording, after all, it was twenty-three years ago, and technology has moved on quite a bit since then. But surely technology hadn’t moved on so much to warrant yet another remaster five years later? And then another remaster a mere year in the future? Surely that’s just a step too far.

The good news is that Ultravox seem finally contented with the 2009 remaster, as there doesn’t seem to have been any more remasters since then, although surely it’s only a matter of time; the 2009 remaster is starting to sound a bit dated now.

When I say remaster, I don’t mean that these songs have been rerecorded. All that has happened is that a producer has fiddled around with the levels a bit, altered a few compression and equalisation settings, and maybe adjusted the stereo placement of some of the instruments.

“ah, yes, I notice that the tambourine is up half a decibel in the 2009 remaster; about time it got that extra level of prominence that it clearly deserves. The 2008 version took it down 2 decibels, which was, quite frankly, a travesty, but I’m glad they’ve seen sense finally.”

In other news, we have a new kettle. Normally I wouldn’t bother to tell you about the purchase of fairly standard domestic appliances, but this kettle is a special kettle. It is a kettle that you can control by your phone, tablet or Apple Watch. The app has a bland uninspiring name, so much so that I can’t actually remember it; however, I think they missed a trick by not calling the App Poly. It should also be voice activated, and when you want to use the kettle, you merely have to say, “poly, put the kettle on” and the app will oblige. I also had an idea for the Apple Watch version of the app. When the app loads up, it should show the words, “an Apple Watched kettle always boils.” Sadly this wouldn’t work for the phone or tablet versions. However, if the phone and tablet apps are anything to go by then that particular statement would be incorrect anyway, as in actuality, the kettle only seems to boil after the thirtieth attempt, by which point you might as well have just crossed the room and turned the bloody thing on. I think that this is a case of technology going one step too far, adding a needless level of complexity to the most straightforward of tasks.

My two housemates Ben and Elsa have spent about a day trying to work the thing. Firstly, you need to make sure that there is actually water in the kettle. This means that you have to remember to fill the kettle back up as soon as you’ve made your tea, otherwise you won’t be able to use the kettle app because we haven’t yet reached the technological age that means the kettle can turn on the tap and fill itself. I would argue that this, rather than simplifying the tea making process, complicates it, because you have to train yourself to remember to fill the kettle back up after you’ve made the tea, and who is honestly going to remember to do that? You know for a fact that you’re going to forget, so the next time you want tea you’ll need to go into the kitchen and fill the kettle up before you can use the app, which would be stupid because you’re literally standing at the kettle, so why not just press the button on the actual kettle?

Of course, you could, I suppose, fill the kettle to the brim so that you maximise the number of boils you can get before you need to fill it back up again. But this adds a whole new range of problems. Firstly, this is far from environmentally friendly, nor is it particularly energy efficient. This kettle has the potential to double your electricity bills, not to mention the extra power being used to keep the kettle’s in-built wifi receiver running 24 hours a day. I mean, you could turn the kettle’s wifi connectivity off, but then you’d have to keep going back to the kettle every time you wanted to use the app just so you could turn wifi back on, which again, would defeat the whole purpose of having an app, because you’re right by the kettle.

Also, having the kettle filled to the very top would mean that it would take much longer to boil than it ordinarily would. It would be a massive waste of time and energy, especially if you were just making one cup of tea. You’d have to boil an entire kettle’s worth of water.

So far, we have been able to boil the kettle from the dining room, which is about ten metres away from the kitchen where the kettle is housed. We did try boiling it from my bedroom, but we got an error message telling us that the kettle was not in range. Surely that’s the whole point: if the kettle was in range then I’d press the bloody button on the kettle and boil it the old fashioned way. But this is 2016, and apparently that way just isn’t cutting it any more.

Eventually, we got it working again. The app advised us to go to the base of the kettle and reset the wifi receiver. We were then able to go back up the stairs and boil the kettle from my bedroom. But then we had to go down the stairs again to make the tea. This is the most ludicrous and pointless invention. It’s only a matter of time before it breaks again.

I don’t think I’ll be using the app part of the kettle. I am happy with the traditional way of operating kettles, plus, with all the stress that using the app causes, I have the feeling that if I used it, the only thing that’s going to be steaming is me, because the kettle certainly won’t be.

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

Yesterday’s stats indicated that another person clicked the link taking them to the erotic fiction novel mentioned in Sunday’s blog, bringing the total up to two people. Here’s the link again in case you missed it. Please click on it, because I’ve concocted a cunning plan whereby I boost the writer Sarah Morgan’s sales so much that she gets in touch to thank me in person. Let’s just say, if her books are anything to go by, she’ll know exactly what to do to make it worth my while. Yes, I am thirteen days into this consecutive blog posts exercise and I’ve reached the stage where I ask my readers to help me have sex. But, in fairness, I’m giving these blogs away for free, so it’s the least you can do really.

Last night I had a dream in which I was having an argument with an Ex-girlfriend. I can’t remember what we were arguing about, but I do know that I was definitely right and she was most certainly wrong. The argument was getting quite heated and seemed to have been going on for some time. Eventually our verbal exchange reached its peak and I think we might have been about to reach the angry make-up sex stage. Of course, this coincided with my alarm going off. I think my ex new what she was doing? The make-up sex idea was definitely engineered by her. In the dream I thought that she was being reconciliatory, but now I think about it in the light of day, I’m convinced that she knew exactly what she was doing, timing her amorousness deliberately to coincide with my alarm going off, giving her the last laugh, and hammering the final nail in the coffin. But you’d have to ask her that if you really wanted to know, although, trust me, she’d deny any of it ever happened and say that it was my own mind just making it up. But again, that’s just the kind of thing she would say, and sneaking into her ex-boyfriend’s dream to taunt him is precisely the kind of thing she’d do. I am not paranoid, I am not, who said that? Shut up, I am not paranoid!

However, the dream did give me a topic for this blog. I started thinking about how being blind influences the way I behave when it comes to potential areas of conflict, such as an argument.

Being blind can make it difficult to be charismatic or authoritative. If you can’t see then it seriously can impair your ability to make a dramatic exit. Let’s use the example of a heated argument between a blind man and his partner.

“You’ve gotten away with this for too long. Well let me tell you, I don’t need you any more, I’m out of here!” The blind man declares, his head held high in triumph. In truth, he was rather pleased with his passionate soliloquy. He’d made his point very well, very forcefully. Now all he had to do was storm out of the room. That’s what was needed now, a dramatic exit. So, with his head still held high, he walked in the direction of where the door was. Except, it wasn’t. He crashed into the wall, bruising his chin. Maybe holding his head up high wasn’t helping matters. He needed to focus his vision down, closer to the ground, because his eyes couldn’t focus properly at this height and angle. It was a shame to loose the head-held-high posture. He was pretty sure that it helped add extra indignation and charisma to the exit, but he was also aware that he was in serious danger of losing both of those things completely if he crashed into any more walls.

He needed to find the door, maybe make one final declaration. He’d quite liked “I don’t need you any more, I’m out of here!” He thought that that had worked quite effectively. That would tell her. That would ring in her ears. He could just imagine her now, sobbing on the phone to her friends, reciting that line to them, barely able to say the words through her tears. And it would serve her right.

But … The door. He must find the door. They put it here somewhere. He could see a jet of light in the corner of his left eye, coming from across the other side of the room. That must be where the door is, he surmised. The glass panels in the door must be amplifying the light. All he needed to do was walk towards the light.

“Shit!” he screamed. His nose was burning. The light was a candle. He brushed the hot wax off his nose. Ideally he’d take some cold water to the burn, but there wasn’t time for that. He realised he was really starting to lose face here. He must find the door.

Then he heard his girlfriend sigh wearily. She stood up, took his arm and gently escorted him to the door. Well, that didn’t go as well as he’d imagined it in his head, but still, he was at the door now. All he needed to do was cry his ardent farewell, and give the door a good slam behind him. Then he’d be out of the house and out of her life. And that would show her.

He was at the door now. He unlinked his arm from hers, turned to face her and yelled, “yes, as I said, I don’t need you any more, I’m out of here!” Yes, of course he was aware of the irony. But now that she’d guided him to the door, he didn’t need her any more. He grappled for the handle. Where was the sodding thing? After a few seconds of fumbling, his girlfriend gave another weary sigh, and opened the door for him. Again, he became acutely aware of the increasing irony. Maybe he should shout that he didn’t need her any more again. After all, now she’d taken him to the door and opened it for him, he didn’t need her any more.

“Yes, so, as I said, I don’t need you any more, I’m out of here!”

Hmm, the words didn’t sound quite as poweful and as sincere that time, he thought. Still, he could reclaim the moment by giving the door a good slam behind him. He stepped out of the house, and reached for the handle to give it one, big, dramatic final slam. But, again, the handle completely aluded him. Where the heck was it? He fumbled for awhile. He was losing the moment again. Then he found it. Aha! He grabbed the handle forcefully. He wanted to get a good angle on it to make the slam louder and more intense. But then he realised that the door was already shut. His girlfriend must have shut it gently behind him. Damn her. Well he’d show her. He’d have to open the door, then slam it closed. Not as powerful an exit as he’d have liked, but better than nothing. Perhaps he should shout “I don’t need you anymore, I’m out of here!” again, but maybe three times would be overkill.

He took hold of the handle, pulled the door back open, and then slammed it shut again. In fairness, it was a pretty forceful slam. He was quite proud of it. It was a shame that it was severely tempered by the debacle that had preceeded it, but at least he got the slam in. Now he just had to walk away.

Except … Oh no. He’d forgotten his cane. With all the drama he’d completely forgotten to get his cane. He couldn’t go anywhere without his cane. There was nothing for it but to open the door and get it back. He’d have to ask her for it. He opened the door again, and diffidently cleared his throat.

“I need my cane.”

She sighed that weary sigh again, and got to her feet. She handed him the cane.

“But I don’t need you anymore, I’m out of here!”

But he knew it was useless. He’d lost the moment completely. This wasn’t the charasmatic, noble exit that he’d imagined. He knew he’d lost.

“OK, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I do need you, I do, I’m sorry, please take me back, I was wrong, I shouldn’t have said those things, of course you have a right to sleep with my best friend and my brother and I was stupid to be upset about it, please don’t leave me, I’m sorry, I need you, I need you!!!” he blurted. She gave one final weary sigh and He slumped back into the house.

Obviously, this is an exagerated scenario, but you get my point. It’s difficult to adopt a position of power and authority when you know that you’re going to have to ask them to help you storm out.

Anyway, I’ll end this blog post here, otherwise I’m in danger of burning my fish, which is not some kind of strange euphamism, I am just cooking some fish for our tea, and I need to go and take it from the oven. Perhaps I’ll talk more about my fish-based meal in tomorrow’s blog, who knows? That is the delights of doing a daily blog. Anything can happen. But I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out what? “Oh I hope ihe writes about his fish meal!” Well, you’ll just have to wait until tomorrow my friends.

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

Monday mornings tend to be congenitally grim, but yesterday was especially grim, as we heard the tragic news. We discovered that David Cameron was still alive, despite a news reader accidentally announcing that David Cameron had died. How quickly we were catapulted through the emotions: from joy to disbelief when her mistake was instantly corrected and we discovered that the dead person was actually David Bowie.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GpnYDRi2rVM

The reason for her confusion was seemingly down to her reading the line below the one she was meant to be reading, which was a statement from David Cameron about Bowie.

Obviously when you think of Bowie you naturally think of Cameron. I suppose the two are just invariably linked together. Bowie Cameron, Cameron Bowie – they have been synonymous with each other for as long as I can remember. So it seemed only natural and right that David Cameron should offer up a few words about Bowie.

“He was a master of re-invention, who kept getting it right” said David Cameron whilst wiping the tears away from his red roar eyes. Then he realised that he’d never actually heard a Bowie song in his entire life.

Suddenly he began to panic. He knew it was only a matter of minutes before he started getting phone calls from journalists asking him Bowie related questions.

He shuddered at the memory of the last time he’d tried to appear normal, as if he was just like those ordinary members of the public he loathed so much. He didn’t want a repeat of the West Ham/Aston Villa debacle. But he knew he had just opened a potential can of worms with this pro-Bowie proclamation.

In a panic, he grabbed the phone, intending to call one of his advisors to prime him with as many Bowie facts as they could. But Cameron was getting smarter and better at this sincerity game. He knew that it wouldn’t be enough to simply have his head stuffed full of facts; he needed to assimilate emotion too. How did Bowie’s music make people feel? What might a normal David Cameron in a parallel universe have felt when he listened to Bowie growing up? which this David Cameron in this universe certainly had never done.

Then he had a vague memory of something he’d heard from someone somewhere once. When he’d thought the word “universe” it had sparked it off. Oh yes, he was starting to remember. Didn’t David Bowie sing something about space? Yes, brilliant. He’d remember that for later, in case a journalist cornered him, catching him unaware. But he’d need more information than that.

He grabbed the receiver, ready to dial one of his advisors, but before his finger pressed “the first button he realised that there was someone on the line. Shit! He knew it would be a journalist. Someone who didn’t like him on the switchboard must have putt them straight through without warning him. He wrestled with names in his head, trying to figure out who on the switchboard might hate him, but that just made his head hurt. Too much information! Brain overload!

“Hello?” Cameron offered tentatively.

“What’s your favourite Bowie song Mr Prime Minister” came the voice.

His brain began to fizz, his heart beat faster and faster, his breath grew shallower. Desperately, he reached for his computer. If he could just stall for time while he found Bowie’s Wikipedia page.

“Sorry, it’s a bad line, what did you say?”

“What’s your favourite Bowie song Prime Minister?”

His hands were shaking so much that he accidentally started typing boobies instead of Bowie. Instantly his Internet history tabs began lighting up. He thought he’d deleted all that stuff. His wife had been furious when she’d discovered all the filthy things he’d been looking at, and no amount of telling her to “calm down dear” had helped placate her.

His hands began to shake even more. The voice on the phone was speaking again.

“Mr Cameron? I said, what’s your favourite Bowie song? One of the ones you used to listen to growing up maybe?”

His hands were shaking so much that he accidentally clicked on one of his Internet history links. It was that blog from that folk singer he accidentally stumbled across when he’d spent that entire day looking at Mongolian lesbian sex scenes. (if you didn’t read yesterday’s Dollop then that’ll mean nothing to you, but trust me, it does make sense and was extremely funny).

The voice came again, more insistent. His hands were shaking too much to type in the words he needed in order to reach the Wikipedia page. In a mad panic he shouted down the phone, “that one about space, the one about space, you know the one. I loved it. Still do. I was listening to it only yesterday actually. Love the chorus. Very catchy.”

Shit! Why did he always have to overcomplicate things by adding extra bits of information. Did that song about space even have a chorus? He had no idea. The person on the other end of the phone laughed derisively. Instantly, relief flooded his whole body. It was Rebekah Brooks. It was only Rebekah, deer Rebekah, and he and her were best of friends. There’d been that weird period in their friendship when she’d been hanging out with Tony Blair quite a lot too, but that was all in the past. He knew he was safe. He let out an audible sigh of relief.

“Good luck David,” she giggled, and hung up.

Phew, that could have been a disaster. His hands, now steady, found the Wikipedia page, he then logged into his Spotify account. He pressed play on the David Bowie page, called his people to get them to postpone the morning’s appointments and prepared to assimilate information. He might get away with this yet.

Rest in peace David Bowie. Ashes to Ashes, funk to funky,.

Oh and just for the record, the best David Bowie song is clearly the laughing Gnome. But that one about space is pretty good too, you’re quite right Mr Cameron.

I haven’t been online all day, and it was only during the recording of the podcast when my housemate Ben came into my room that I found out that David Bowie died today. So, while the story has been proliferated throughout social media and sunderstandably seems to be the major topic of conversation today, this blog post was written entirely ignorant of the news. And now here’s today’s Dollop.

Download the audio version of today’s dollop here

Hello to Chloe who commented on yesterday’s blog post saying: “David, might there be a gap in the market for erotic fiction recited in a northern accent?”

I think it’s clear what Chloe is driving at here. She was obviously turned on by me reading the erotic fiction extract at the start of yesterday’s podcast version of the blog, which incidentally you can subscribe to with Itunes here, or go here for the Rss feed where you can subscribe with other subscribing platforms. Before Chloe gets too excited, when I say you can subscribe, I am merely referring to the podcast version of this blog, not a podcast of me reading out erotic fiction. I think that Chloe is, in a roundabout way, essentially putting in her request for me to release some kind of audio erotica series, but she’s a bit timid about asking in such a brazen way so disguised her desire in a sentence that sounded nonchalant and a little tongue in cheek (which reminds me of one of the scenes from that erotic novel; I believe A Little Tongue In Cheek was actually one of the chapter titles).

I’m glad you enjoyed yesterday’s blog post Chloe, and I’m sorry I hadf to ruin it for you by curtailing the fantasy before it properly got going. She started losing interest when I got to the made-up conversation bit, but when I started talking about gelatinous rice, she began to get turned on again. We all have our needs Chloe; don’t be shy about admitting yours, even if it is that you get turned on by North East males talking about gelatinous rice. If I can find another nine like-minded people, then I’ll be happy to do half an hour erotic fiction podcasts once a month, for a monthly fee of £5, although, I’m not sure whether we’ll be able to find anyone else who finds similar potency in me reading erotic fiction that includes mentions of gelatinous rice; I think you might be on your own there. However, I am willing to produce a special bespoke podcast just for you, but that will cost you £50 a month. Let me know if either of these things interest you Chloe. I promise though Chloe that you won’t be disappointed. I already have the perfect character to satiate your unique brand of fantasy: Gelatinous Geordie, who shares your trait of being turned on by gloop, and obviously also speaks in a strong North East accent. I know you’re a bit shy about all this Chloe, so feel free to message me privately.

I am able to view various statistics for this website, including what pages people have viewed on my blog, but also what external links people click on. Only one person so far has clicked on the link I put in yesterday’s blog post linking to the erotic fiction novel I pilfered from. I think we all know who that was Chloe. It won’t be the same though without me reading it.

Also, I’ve noticed that everyday there is always at least one person who visits a particular blog that I wrote years ago. I can’t help feeling that nearly every single one of these people have been bitterly disappointed upon discovering what it is. The name of the blog post is Mongol Sex. It talks about the fact that a few years ago I noticed that one particular blog post was getting more visits than all the other pages on my site. The blog post was detailing why I have always been interested in radio, and tells the story of when I was seven-years-old, listening to an old shortwave radio late at night under the bed clothes.

The shortwave frequency boasted every type of radio station from every place on the earth. I remember tuning into a French radio station one night to hear the sound of two women groaning. At first (being about seven at the time) I assumed perhaps they were in pain, but as I listened longer I realised that they were very much enjoying themselves. I got my first sex education lesson about lesbianism at the ag of seven, thanks to French shortwave radio. I was also the only person in my class to be so fluent in French. Sadly, the teacher wasn’t impressed by me knowing the French for dildo. Still, you never know when such information might come in handy. In case you’re interested, it’s godemiché. So now you don’t need to google it Chloe, pretending that it’s merely innocent linguistic curiosity, because I’ve just told you what it is. So, if you want to google “French dildo” then that’s fine, but don’t try and pass it off as anything else other than your rampant sexual desire to see some French lesbian action Chloe. It’s perfectly acceptable Chloe; just be honest, and we’d respect you a lot more for it.

The slightest touch of the knob (by which I mean the radio knob, you dirty animals – Chloe, calm down) can tune you into a completely different station and into a completely different world. One moment you’re listening to an enraged American evangelist damning you to hell in a threatening deep gruff voice unless you send him money, then you touch the dial ever so slightly and you’re listening to a French radio drama with Lesbian sex scenes; then the sound of a Mongolian throat singer, belting out the popular Mongolian hits of the day.

So basically I wrote a blog about my formative radio experiences, and I ended up getting loads of hits for it, although when I did some digging into the stats, it soon became clear that people had come across my website because they had googled search terms such as: “mongol sex,” “Mongolian sex,” “Mongolian lesbians,” “Mongolian lesbian dildo deep throat,” all words that appeared in my blog post, only in a very different order and in a very different context to the one hoped for by the googlers.

I would imagine that you’d have to go quite a way into the search results before my blog post came up, but some people do find it by googling those words, which makes me wonder just how insatiable their appetite must be for this kind of thing. They must have already looked at tuns of porn sites, but still felt that they’d not seen quite enough Mongolian lesbian sex scenes yet, so just kept ploughing deeper and deeper through the internet. Feverishly, their hands shaking, they clicked onto my website, and instantly their hearts sank, as presumably did the bulge in their pants, when a photo of me popped up on the screen, and their eyes scanned the disappointing litany of words about some seven-year-old’s boring experience of shortwave radio.

“Oh well, at least I learnt the French for dildo, so it’s been a bit educational I suppose. And in fairness, I have wasted the entire day watching Mongolian lesbian sex scenes. And I’ve still got tomorrow’s sermon to write.”

Haha! See what I did. He’s a priest. My fictional character is a priest. Adding another unexpected layer of comedy. I’m unstoppable!

I wonder if anyone will find this blog post through googling, “mongol lesbian sex deep throat dildo priest.” Time will tell. I wonder if I have any regular readers of this blog who first stumbled across me when searching for porn, and got hooked. Apart from Chloe obviously, who’s never commented on any of my blog posts before, but suddenly comes out of the woodwork when I start writing erotic fiction. Coincidence? I think not.

So, what have we learnt today? That if you’re searching for porn on the internet, maybe stop by result 1000, or you might start stumbling across folk singer’s blogs. And I hope that Chloe has learnt that we all love you, and none of us are judging you, so don’t feel ashamed and embarrassed about being turned on by me talking about gelatinous rice.

Download the audio version of today’s dollop here

I slide my hand behind her head and bring my mouth down on hers in a hard, demanding kiss that stirs up a raw hunger. A kaleidoscope of emotions rip through me but the prime one is need. It spreads through me, not slowly, but like wildfire burning everything in sight. I feel the softness of her body pressing through the thin fabric of my shirt, the erotic slide of her tongue against mine, and desire escalates to a dangerous blaze. Her arms are flung around my neck and she purrs deep in her throat like a thoroughly contented kitten. Rock-hard, I feel her tug my shirt out of my trousers and slide her hands over my skin, clearly greedy to touch me. And I am equally greedy to touch her. My fingers now on her buttons, loosening them, giving me access to the smooth creamy skin revealed by the lace of her bra. My body craves hers. It is a visceral, physical need that drives all thought from my brain. But now … she stills, places her hands on my chest and draws her mouth away from mine. Sensing the change in her I stop myself from dragging her back.

“What’s wrong?”

“why are you describing everything we’re doing in great detail?”

“Damn, you noticed. I thought my passionate antics were so intense that you wouldn’t realise that I was commentating everything that was happening into a hidden digital recorder, so that I could transcribe it later for the blog. I knew that after all this love making, I was bound to be tired for most of the following day, so I figured that I could save myself some time by writing the blog there and then. But my cover has been blown.

“Well that’s the only thing that’s going to be blown tonight.”

“I think that joke was a bit obvious, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Yes I bloody well do mind you saying, and stop trying to change the subject. How dare you! I can’t believe you were recording everything and commentating on it for your bloody blog.”

“Look, you don’t understand. It’s not easy writing a blog post everyday you know. I’m finding it hard to keep it up.”

“Well, it’s probably for the best we stopped then, isn’t it? You should maybe go to the doctors about that. They could give you some pills or something.”

“Oh come on, that was another really obvious joke.”

“I bet you’ll use them in your blog anyway though, won’t you? You’ll be so desperate for material that you’ll include it.”

“I won’t. I’ll have loads of jokes of my own. I won’t need to use your predictable erectile dysfunction gag.”

“Well, we’ll see. But if you do use my jokes then you better credit me. If you claim them as your own then I’ll leave a comment on your website, telling everyone about that weird fetish you have with the …”

“All right, all right, fine, if I’m really short of material and I resort to using your tacky penis joke then I promise to credit you.”

“Thank you. Oh, and just for the record: I did not purr like a thoroughly contented kitten. I had a bit of mucus lodged at the back of my throat I was trying to shift. Purrs like a thoroughly contented kitten indeed. You are weird.”

“That’s the kind of thing they write in these romantic novels.”

“Well, when you write up your blog post, I want you to tell them the truth, that I was merely clearing some mucus from the back of my throat.”

“I can’t write that. That would sound completely ridiculous. It would ruin the narrative. It would spoil the sexy vibe I had going”

“I’m not having people thinking that I was purring like a thoroughly contented kitten David. It’s embarrassing. If you don’t tell them that I was clearing mucus from my throat then I’ll leave a comment on your blog telling everyone about that weird thing you did with the …”

“OK, OK! Fine. Let’s compromise. How about I just play the recording into some speech recognition software, and just upload the transcript of this conversation as tomorrow’s blog post? Plus, that will save me having to actually write anything. Obviously I’ll take out all that stuff where you nearly started talking about those weird things I did and asked you to do.”

“That’s fine by me. To be honest, I think that I’ll come out a lot better from this event than you will. But knowing you, you’ll do something stupid like forget to edit it, and just upload the entire thing, including all the times that I nearly mentioned those sordid little ideas of yours.”

“I’m not stupid. I won’t forget. Am I allowed to use the actual recording from tonight for the podcast. That will save me even more time.”

“What? No. Seriously, you’re taking the piss now! Get out of my house David. I’ve had enough of you and your weirdness!”

“OK, OK, look, I’m sorry. Oo, talking of taking the piss: I’m just going to pop to the toilet before I leave. I’ve been dying for a poo all day.”

“Sorry, no, my toilet is broken.”

“What?! But that was the main reason I came home with you. Oh well, at least I got a blog out of it, so I suppose it hasn’t been a completely wasted night.”

“Oh you know just what to say to make a girl feel special. Piss off, before I claw your eyes out like a dementedly enraged wild cat. Purred like a thoroughly contented kitten indeed. I ask you.”

Except, none of that actually happened. But then you knew that already. I pilfered the opening of this blog post (including the purring kitten line) from a romantic novel called Suddenly Last Summer, by Sarah Morgan, which I found by Googling “ridiculous romantic fiction extract.”

Last night was far from salacious. I didn’t go out, but I did have a nice evening with my housemates. We made a delicious curry with proper fresh ingredients like proper sophisticated adults. Although the night was not salacious, it did offer up a tale of a gelatinous nature. We were all too tired and bloated after the curry to tackle the dishes, so we left them until the morning. When we came down the stairs the next morning, the remainder of the uneaten rice was still lying there on the plates, and it had indeed gone a bit gelatinous. So there you go, both a salacious and a gelatinous tale in the same blog post. What a treat.

If you were enjoying the erotic story at the start of the blog post, before I cut it short, then you can purchase a copy of the actual novel here. Sadly, I don’t make an appearance in the original. I’m sorry to say that there isn’t yet a novel available of my gelatinous rice story, and I am pretty confident in stating that there never will be.

Back tomorrow. We’re in double digits now. Another milestone reached. Oh yes, I can tell your impressed.’;

You Say Gelatinous, I say Salacious, Let’s Call The Whole Thing A Badly Written Blog. Dollop 9 https://www.davideagle.co.uk/dollop-9-you-say-gelatinous-i-say-salacious-lets-call-the-whole-thing-a-badly-written-blog/

Download the audio version of today’s dollop here

It seems as if yesterday’s spy story went down quite well with readers and listeners. If you read the blog then you might want to listen to the audio version as I ended up spontaneously adding a bit extra onto the story, in which we met our heroes’ assailants. Given how well it was received, it seems a shame that I’ve killed the two good guys off in scene one, which seems to scupper any chance of a sequel, unless it transpires that our heroes aren’t dead after all, just resting. Perhaps they have survived by some amazing Douglas Adams style infinitely improbable miracle. Either that or I could just go down the prequel route.

Nothing at all happened yesterday. I got up, wrote a blog, recorded the podcast version of the blog, edited it and added a few sound effects. I was originally going to add all sorts of elements, including music and more sound effects. I also spent quite a bit of time experimenting with different reverb and eQ settings to get the effect of sitting under floorboards. But then I realised how late it was getting and so decided to go for a more minimal approach. I even considered setting up two microphones so as to record the dialogue parts in stereo, creating spacial realism like they do on proper radio 4 dramas, but this would have taken even longer, and it was already seven in the evening. That is more or less all I did yesterday.

The toilet broke again today. I sort of didn’t mind when it broke a couple of days ago because it gave me something to blog about, but I feel as if talking about a broken toilet twice in one week might be a bit overkill. I felt as if maybe I was being helped along with this blog by a higher force, perhaps the gods of the blogosphere (which is a real word). Perhaps they broke the toilet so as to give me inspiration for a blog. Similarly they may have tampered with my mac in order to inspire yesterday’s blog post. But they are deluding themselves if they think that repeating the old broken toilet gambit is going to work again. In fairness to the Blogosphere gods, it’s not like they’ve really got a lot to work with, given that all I’ve really done this week is write blogs and go to the toilet. I didn’t even really eat anything yesterday, apart from a handful of nuts (oh, come on, really?), a handful of olives (I used my own hand both times, I think using someone else’s hand would have introduced a needless level of complexity for such a simple task) and a bowl of Muesley with grapes, blueberries and almond milk. I am barely living. All I do is blog and subsist on morsels of food.

Incidentally, when I went to the shop to get the Meusley, the member of staff who was assisting me replied to my request for Muesley by saying, “we’ve got loads of types of Muesley mate. I assume you’ll be wanting the cheapest one, yes?” Instantly my haunches went up (that reminds me, I must go to the doctors about that). I made him read out all the different options, and then went for what sounded like the most expensive one, even though I doubt caviar will go particularly well in muesley. “That’ll show him,” I thought, although now I think about it, that was probably his clever ploy to get me to spend more money.

I don’t know why he assumed I’d want the cheapest Muesley. Was it something to do with how I looked, the fact that I was in the shop during the day, suggesting that I didn’t have a job? Was it because I am blind and he assumed that I’d be living hand to mouth on the money I receive from the government? Well, he wouldn’t have been completely incorrect about the hand to mouth element, given that I’ve mainly been subsisting on handfuls of food, but that is through choice, rather than out of financial necessity.

I think I am going to go out tonight, so maybe the Blogosphere gods can engineer something of interest. You never know, perhaps tomorrow’s blog will be that blog I promised you earlier in the week about the next time I have sex, although I think we all know that that is unlikely. Even the blogosphere gods couldn’t pull that off. Don’t worry, I am not lonely and depressed, I am merely being endearingly self-deprecating; I know I am amazingly hot really. Actually, it would be quite useful to go back to someone else’s house tonight so that at least I can have a shit without worrying about not being able to flush the evidence away. Sexy! Maybe that could be my chatup line. What woman could refuse such a proposition.

There’s just no knowing what tomorrow will bring, and this is what is so exciting about doing a daily blog. Today I feel slovenly, drained and uncreative, writing about Muesley. Tomorrow I may be regaling you with salacious tales of the night before. Or perhaps it’ll be more Muesley chat and an update on my broken toilet. My spell checker just tried to change my misspelling of the word salacious to gelatinous. I am very doubtful that any of my blogs will ever contain gelatinous tales of the night before, but to be honest there’s probably just as much chance as a gelatinous tale as there is a salacious one. If anyone has any gelatinous or salacious tales that they’d like to share, feel free to leave a comment underneath. Or maybe you’ve got a witty story about muesley or broken toilets, or even both. Who knows what magical places this blog will take us to. Back tomorrow Z\friends.

Download the audio version of this dollop here

Well I have not died. God did not smite me yesterday, although I did feel as if I’d had a heart attack when I turned on my computer.

After a two year dalliance with an apple mac (not like that you dirty animals), I’m now back to using windows more or less entirely. Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be a blog exclusively for nerds. I haven’t used my mac for a couple of months, but I needed to turn it on in order to get some files off it.

A few seconds after switching the computer on, I got a huge shock. The mac, as if indignant at my betrayal, made a deafening sound. It was so loud that it caused the people I’m living with to wake up with a jolt.

This was not the first time that this had happened, although I’ve never experienced it at such high volume before. The sound was the generic Apple mac startup sound that occurs a few seconds after turning on. I think it remembers where your volume was set to the last time you used it and chimes accordingly. The last time I used the mac was during a gig, and the computer was connected to a mixing desk and set at the highest volume, hence its ferocity.

There is no way that I have found to circumvent this sound. Even if you plug headphones in the sound still plays through the speakers. If I forget to set the volume to a low level before shutting it down, then there is nothing that can be done about the loudness of the sound when it turns back on.

This is not the first time I have woken people up with the mac startup sound, nor am I the only person who’s experienced this. The Young’uns’ very own Michael Hughes has got into trouple off his girlfriend for turning on the computer in the middle of the night, unable to get to sleep, and waking the entire house up with the cursed apple startup sound. And once that button is pressed, nothing can help you. If you press the on button, then suddenly realise in horror that the laptop volume was set to high before you shut it down and is therefore about to seriously piss off your girlfriend, waking her and your neighbours down the street , there is nothing you can do to stop it. You are powerless. Frantically pressing volume down repeatedly is useless; the mac plays the sound just as loud as it deems fit. Plugging headphones in won’t help you. The mac doesn’t give a toss; it will chime loudly through the speakers regardless. It may even chime through the headphones as well, meaning that if you’re wearing them when it chimes, you are likely to scream out loud with the shock of hearing such an ear-splitting noise, directly fed into your ears. the There isn’t enough time to run out of the room with the laptop, hoping to get far enough away from sleeping people. You have about two seconds til the hideously loud noise begins. The battery packs on the mac are completely covered over, so you can’t even yank the battery out. And don’t go thinking that holding down the off key immediately after switching it on is going to help, because it won’t. All that happens then is the sound plays, your girlfriend wakes up, the mac then powers down, your girlfriend slaps you, and you’re back at square one. If you really need to use the computer then you have no choice but to power it back on again and let the chimes of doom seal the deal on your breakup once and for all.

I don’t know whether I have any readers who work has spies, but if I have then presumably they’re doing their job reasonably well given that I don’t know. I would imagine one of the first things you learn in spy school is not to use an apple mac computer, or at least not if you’re planning on needing the use of the computer while you’re hiding from the enemy.

“OK, we’ve managed to smuggle ourselves under the cover of darkness into the enemy’s headquarters.”

“I know, I can’t believe it. The place had cameras everywhere. Then there was that crazy alarm system with the 3000 digit code which you managed to somehow know and enter correctly, while all the while being chased by that giant killer robot. Butt Then, when we were caught by those armed security guards I really thought our game was up. But then you pulled it out of the back again. Managed somehow to seduce every single one of them, convince them to partake in bondage, tied them up and shot them all, well that was out-of-this-world, and the sex was pretty good too. And then just as I thought we’d finally made it, we were presented with another control panel and somehow you managed to guess the 14000 digit code. And hear we are. Now what do we do boss?”

“When you’re in this game son, you’ve got to think of everything. Codes, alarms, security guards, killer robots disguised as harmless looking teapots … I’ve seen it all before.”

“Ah, I wondered why you went crazy earlier on when you saw that old teapot. I thought it was a bit unusual when you opened fire on it. But I didn’t want to say anything at the time. It didn’t seem appropriate, plus you had that look in your eyes.”

“Well son, when you’ve been a spy as long as I have you learn to trust nothing, especially teapots. Although on this occasion it did turn out to be just a tea pot. Antique, Chinese, one of the few surviving tea pots from the Chinese Qing Dynasty during the Qianlong period, circa 1736 to 1795. A shame to have riddled it with bullet holes, as it would have fetched quite a bit at auction. Or I could have taken it home and gave it to the wife.

“Anyway, I can’t sit here under the floorboards of the enemy’s headquarters chatting about antique tea pots all day. There’s work to be done. All I need to do now is log in to their mainframe, which will be a piece of cake. I can’t believe they thought I wouldn’t see through that disguise. Hiding your mainframe computer inside a piece of cake: why it’s one of the oldest tricks in the book. Once I’ve hacked into the mainframe, I’ll shut them down for ever, and we’ll have a slice of cake to celebrate. A shame I got rid of the tea pot, we could have had some tea with it too. I’ve got some lovely chamomile teabags in my pocket. Calms the nerves. You need something to calm you down after a hard day’s work sexing armed guards and smashing up antique robots.

“Victory is in sight my friend. Thirty years of my life I’ve waited for this moment. Thirty years of work, and now finally … finally. All I need to do is turn on the computer, enter the 75000 digit code, which fortunately I had the foresight to copy to the clipboard for convenience, and then watch their evil empire crumble.

“I must admit, when my bosses told me that I had to take the work experience boy with me on this mission, I was, quite frankly, livid. I thought having you here would ruin everything, but you’ve done good boy, you’ve done real good. Anyway, this is the end. Turn on the computer son.”

“OK boss. Here goes.”

“Hang on, is that a mac? You brought the mac? You idiot. Don’t turn it … Shit! Shit, shit shit!” Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaang!!!!!!!! Discovered. Dead. End of story.

Then again, I can’t imagine a windows computer doing any better in a planet saving mission.

“All I need to do is type in the code and take out the enemy’s weapons system. Yes! Got it, now I just need to press enter and the world will be saved. Oh no, what’s this? “Windows has encountered a problem and needs to close.” I’m trying to save the world. I was just seconds away. “Do you want to send a problem report to Microsoft? This will help us fix this and similar problems in the future.” There is no future Microsoft, there is no future! We’re all doomed … What? Hang on, what’s happening? Why aren’t we dead? Oh, it turns out that our enemy was using Apple Maps to locate us, and they’ve had their lazors pointing in completely the wrong direction. They’ve just blown themselves up. Brilliant. Disaster overted. Well, I might restart this computer and have a cheeky game of spider solitaire.”

Well, there you go friends. Two gripping dramas in one blog post, as yet uncommissioned, but you never know who might be reading this. As you can tell, nothing much is happening in my life at the moment. The Young’uns don’t have a gig until February, and I haven’t really been out much this week, hence why my blog posts have become less about me and more about killer tea pots and planet saving spies. Whether that’s a bad thing or not I don’t know. Feel free to leave a comment. I feel that this project is working well, but perhaps I’m too deeply entrenched in it to properly know. Thanks for reading anyway. Back tomorrow.

Download the audio version of this dollop here

Our toilet broke yesterday. I’ve a feeling that God or mother nature is sending me a warning about my choice of toilet paper. Fortunately though, after a bit of prodding about in the Cistern the problem was fixed. I’m really not sure what God/mother nature expects me to do. I’ve bought the planet destroying toilet paper now, so surely I might as well use it. Surely you should be focusing your wrath on the people who produce the paper, rather than one individual consumer. But if you think I should throw the remainder of the toilet paper in the bin rather than use it then that’s what I’ll do, but you could at least tell me in a more civilised way like leaving a comment on my blog, rather than breaking our toilet. But I suppose that would be too obvious and sensible for God, who’s got to live up to his reputation of working in mysterious ways, although I think leaving a comment on a folk singers blog is pretty weird and mysterious too.

Our shower has started leaking through the roof a bit as well, and I’m a little worried now that this blog post will scupper our abilities to claim on the insurance should anything go wrong. After all, this blog post could be seen as an admission that the problems occurred due to an act of God, who is smiting me through the medium of plumbing problems due to my reckless toilet paper consumption.

What a strange term that is: act of God. I’d love to hear the phone conversation between Richard Dawkins and his insurance company after his house has been flooded.

“I’m sorry Mr Dawkins, I’m afraid we won’t be paying out.”

“You what? What do you mean you won’t be paying out? But this is ridiculous!”

“If you’d just calm down Mr Dawkins. I’m trying to explain …”

“Calm down?! Calm down?! Listen, I pay the premium rate? I am fully covered. I’m covered for everything! So what do you mean you can’t pay out? What possible reason …

“Please MR Dawkins, calm down and I’ll … Oh, hang on, Mr Dawkins, as in … Oh dear, I’m afraid you’re not going to like this sir.”

“What?”

“You’re really not going to like this. I’m afraid we can’t pay out because … There’s no easy way of telling you this but …”

“What? Come on you insufferable buffoon, spit it out man! What is it?!”

“Well … the thing is Mr dawkins … it was .. er … it was … oh, now … this is somewhat ironic you might say.”

“What the bloody hell are you jabbering on about. Just get on with it!”

“It was … an, act, of, God. It was an act of God Mr Dawkins. Mr dawkins, Mr Dawkins? Mr Dawkins? Are you OK?””

I am also a non-believer, but I haven’t approached my non-belief in God with anywhere near the vociferousness that dawkins has. I’d be damned to hell making no fuss if God would grant me just one wish before I go, which would be to see the moment that Dawkins discovers that he was wrong all this time and that there was a God after all, who is standing over him on the day of judgement laughing uncontrolably, except obviously he would technically be able to control the laughter because he’s all-powerful, but there’s no need to be pedantic.

“Oh we’ve been so looking forward to this moment, haven’t we Peter?”

“How many times Jesus, it’s Simon.”

“Whatever Peter. And how many times Peter? It’s Yeshua. My dad and I had so much fun watching you on the phone to that insurance company Richard. We wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Well technically it would be impossible for my dad to have missed it, given that he’s omnipresent, although, at the same time I suppose it would be possible for him to have missed it in spite of his omnipresence because he’s all-powerful, so if he’d have wanted to have missed it then he must have the power to do so. Oh I don’t know, it’s all very confusing this omnipotence omnipresence malarkey. My dad’s tried to explain it to me thousands of times, and I still don’t get it. To be honest, I’m not even sure he really gets it, although, I suppose he must because he’s all-knowing. Anyway, the point is that we all exist Richard. Me, my dad, AKA God, my mother, the virgin Mary, who’s still a virgin after all these years, although Jeremy Kyle tried to do a lie detector and DNA test when he got to the Pearly Gates. Needless to say we damned him to hell. I bet you feel like a bit of a dick now don’t you. That’s a joke Richard because Dick is short for Richard. Oh yes, Yeshua has a sense of humour you know. I think I get it from my dad. He loves a good joke. Well, take the old testament, absolutely hilarious. We still have a good laugh at the poor sods down there trying to make sense of it, although some people do spoil the joke slightly by killing people because of it.”

“But … but … but … How was I to know? Believing in you and your dad would have been completely irrational?”

“Irrational? It’s not like we didn’t leave clues for you Richard. Remember that slice of toast?”

“The what?”

“That slice of toast in February 2011? We manifested an impression of my mother, the virgin Mary in the bread. You took one look at it, made some snide comment about it being a coincidence and ate it. We don’t leave those toast clues for everyone you know Richard. Some people don’t get any visions in their toast, yet they still believe. Happy are those that have not seen the face of a virgin in their breakfast, yet still believe?”

Although I don’t believe in God, to be fair he has had some pretty nifty ideas, such as his philosophy on work, which I could have done with taking on board before I launched into this 365 consecutive days of blogging nonsense. Even God felt he needed a day off once a week. What hubris overcame me to think that I could go one better than God and keep going for seven days solid without rest. If God needs a rest, surely I should factor in a day of rest too. You may argue that god created an entire planet in six days, whereas I have merely done six days of blogging, and to compare those two things in the same light is utterly ridiculous. But let me say this to you: have you ever done six consecutive daily blog posts? Exactly, so shut up. Oh you do rile me sometimes. In fact, I’ve now done seven days of consecutive blog posts, and I’ll be back tomorrow for Dollop eight, providing God hasn’t smited me with a death-inducing plumbing disaster.

My brother has released a couple of tracks on his Bandcamp page. We had fun over Christmas working on parts of it together. If you fancy, take a listen here.

Download the audio version of this dollop here

The virgin pulp saga continued throughout the rest of yesterday. Richard read yesterday’s startling blog post and commented to say: “I pass a wig shop (yes, they exist apparently) on the way into work each day. It has a sign advertising Brazilian Virgin Hair. How come the Brazilians can farm their virgins economically while we use them as an industrial feedstock?”

The plot thickens, I thought, and sent a comment back to Richard: “This is the kind of information we need Richard. Every tip off we can get is useful and might hold the key to discovering why virgins are being used in such ways. Perhaps the virgins’ flesh and bones are only pulped for toilet paper, while their hair is used for wigs, or maybe the two things are completely separate and the virgin hair wigs enterprise is completely ethical. Either way, thanks for the insight. We will get to the bottom of this, no pun intended, unless you thought it was significantly funny enough, in which case I’ll claim it as intentional.”

But then, I had an incredible thought. It was a moment of inspiration, brilliant in
Its simplicity. I decided to Google virgin pulp.

OK, panic over. It turns out that toilet paper made from virgin pulp is not actually made from pulped up human virgins, but simply means that the paper has been made from freshly cut pulped up trees rather than a recycled pulp. Apparently virgin pulp toilet paper is smoother and yields a nicer bottom wiping experience, although it is more environmentally unfriendly than recycled pulp paper.

In fairness, I didn’t buy the paper, my housemates did, but now that I know the environmental facts I will change to a less bottom friendly but more environmentally sound option. After all, what use is a soft smooth bottom when Armageddon comes? “Oh well, the bad news is I sped up the apocalyps but at least I enjoyed soft smooth bottom wipes when I was alive, although I’m not enjoying that my bottom, along with the rest of me, is now being fried to a crisp.”

Unfortunately, we’ve got quite a lot of this paper left, and it would be even more environmentally unfriendly to throw the virgin pulp paper away in order to buy more ecologically sound paper, and so I’m going to have to continue using it for a while yet, but be assured that I will not enjoy the experience. Its soft silky smoothness will cut like a knife.

Anyway, the good news is that the virgins are safe. The other good news is that Anonymous have not shut me down for my repeated mention of the word Isis, although apparently anonymous also have tabs on the Church Of The flying Spaghetti Monster, who apparently are planning some major escapades in the near future, so perhaps I’m merely on borrowed time. I’ve just realised if this is the first digital dollop you’ve read then none of this post is going to make much sense to you.

The other good news is that I’m now over a 73rd of the way through this project. I only have to do this amount of blogging and podcasting 72 more times and I’ve achieved a year of consecutive daily posts. So, as you can imagine I’m pretty buoyed by that. The end is in sight my friends. I might even have a celebratory Armageddon-inducing arse wipe to toast my success.

So far, all my blog posts have been over one thousand words long. It’s likely therefore that by the end of the year I will have written about 400000 words. According to Wikipedia, novels tend to be between 100000 and 170000 words, meaning that I will have enough for four novels. What the hell am I doing giving this away for free? Sod the Internet, I’m going to write a blog post a day and then release it in book form, on paper made from virgin pulp, because I wouldn’t want my readers getting unnecessary paper cuts, plus when you’ve read it you can use it as toilet paper, so actually in a way I’d be saving the planet.

After the climax of Harry Potter (by which I mean the end of the Harry Potter series, just in case you were concerned that I was going to launch into some self-penned pornographic Potter fan-fiction) J. K. Rowling released some books under a pseudonym because she wanted the work to be judged on its own merit rather than snapped up by millions and lorded as the greatest thing, simply because she wrote it. Then, when the books weren’t doing too well and failing to garner attention, she let slip that the books were written by her, and the sales went crazy. If I can think of a way of kidnapping J. K. Rowling and forcing her to claim that my novels of dollops are hers, then I’ll be a millionaire in a couple of years. Even better if I can get her to release them as Harry Potter books. Just imagine: Harry Potter and the Church Of The Giant Spaghetti Monster; Harry Potter and the Virgin Pulp (although admittedly that does sound like the title of some Potter inspired pornographic writing). As you can tell, I’ve thought it all through. But alas my ego is too large to allow J. K. Rowling to take the credit for my works of genius, so I’ll just continue putting this out for free on the Internet for the occasional like and comment from social media, because I am a needy egotist who will consequently always be poor.

Fear not, this J. K. Rowling kidnapping plan is merely hypothetical. No authors were harmed during the making of this blog. Not yet anyway, but there’s no knowing what the future might hold.

Download the audio version of this blog post here

I know that the news is grim enough right now: floods, junior doctors strikes, Isis … Note to anyone from the hacking group Anonymous who might have stumbled across this website on the basis of my one mention of Isis – oops, that’s two mentions now. I know you’ve been a bit trigger happy with your attack, shutting down perfectly innocent non-isis related websites (damn, three mentions), just because they happen to mention the word Isis (shit!) on their pages, including some of the BBC news pages. But, just because I’ve mentioned Isis four times (bugger! five times) in quick succession, I want you to know that I am just a simple folk singer with a blog, so don’t mistakenly shut me down. On second thoughts, yes, shut me down, and then I’ll have an excuse not to continue with this crazy daily blog nonsense, and I can live a life again. Yes, shut me down, please shut me down! Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis Isis. Please shut me down Anonymous, and save me from this torture.

No, I’m joking, I’m actually enjoying myself, even if no one else might be. Seriously though, please do not shut me down because this blog post is actually very important and could save millions of lives.

So with all this bleakness in the world, I feel guilty about adding to it, but at the same time I am aware of my responsibilities as a citizen of planet earth. I was planning on writing a cheery blog about something funny that happened to me seven years ago that I pretended happened to me today, because “a funny thing happened to me once, well, actually it happened to my friend” isn’t quite the same, is it? But then I made a terrible discovery which shook me to the core. I knew instantly that it was my duty to notify you all, since seemingly no one else has noticed this disgraceful human abomination.

Firstly, if you are a virgin, live with a virgin, or know a virgin, then you need to take precautions immediately. A plea to all virgins: Do Not Leave The House, baton down the hatches (if you have any, otherwise just lock your windows and doors). I’ll explain all in this blog post.

Since I’ve started this daily blogging lark, my mind has been a lot more active in observing everything, no matter how small, just in case something gives me inspiration for a blog post. Something seemingly incidental, insignificant, tiny or pithy can end up becoming the catalyst for pages of ideas. So, today I was absent-mindedly studying the toilet role packet while on the toilet. It was then that I noticed it. But there was nothing incidental, insignificant, tiny or pithy about this observation, in fact, it was horrifying. I read it, gasped, read it again, gasped again, felt a queasiness come over me. The shock was so great that it caused me to defecate, but fortunately I was on the toilet so that wasn’t particularly an issue. It was one line, four words, written in an innocuous font, in small writing. And this, my friends, is what I read.

“Made from virgin pulp.”

I know. I imagine you too are feeling the same sickening revulsion that I felt when I first read those words. How long has this been going on? Who is responsible? Why would someone want to pulp a virgin into toilet paper? Why would they even advertise the fact? So many questions racing through my mind.

I knew I needed to act, and fast. Maybe this was just a nascent enterprise. Maybe I was one of the first people to buy one of these toilet roles. Maybe someone working in the package printing department of the toilet role company had acted as a whistle blower, risking their life to raise the alarm. For all I know, this might be the one and only warning packet that they managed to successfully print and ship before they were found out and eliminated.

So many questions kept rattling through my brain: why virgins? How did they source the virgins? Does it matter how old the virgins are? Is it both male and female virgins? Are children exempt? But these were questions that would have to wait. The only question that was important right now was what am I going to do about it?

Well the first thing was to get off the toilet, but there was a certain task that needed to be taken care of first. I felt sick as I wiped my backside. Which poor pulped up virgin was I wiping my backside on? I wondered. I flushed the toilet and washed my hands; hygiene is still important, even in such a crisis as this, in fact, it took on a greater pertinence on this occasion as I felt that I had blood on my hands, virgins’ blood. As I abluted, I mused darkly on how I might be able to wash away the physical matter, but I will never be able to wash away the memory of this moment, for this revelation would sully me for life.

In a panic I did the first thing that came to mind. I turned on my laptop, opened a blank word document and began to feverishly type. The blog you are reading now is the result of that typing frenzy. It may be badly structured and poorly written, but I just needed to get something down and uploaded to the website. I know the blog posts’ introduction may have seemed a bit banal, given the terrible subject that this blog contains, but I think when I first started typing I was in such huge shock that my brain temporarily stopped functioning properly, and I just started writing trite drivel. But I don’t have time to edit. Every second I waste on redacting might potentially be costing more virgins’ lives. I must go and upload this blog post now and get the news out there. Then we can decide how to go forward from here…

I’ll be back tomorrow with hopefully more information. Who knows what news the new day may bring. In the meantime, stay safe, especially if you’re a virgin. Oh, and check your toilet role packets. Together we can stop this !!