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I play the cello a bit and write a bit and can make my eyebrows do a Mexican wave.

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» I'm your biggest Fan

University Challenge
Ok, this QOTW was made for me, and if this doesn't make the top of the front page I will CRY.

Way back in...2003 I think it was, I was a music student, practising scales and Piatti Caprices for several hours a day, bored out of my nut. One of the few things that made life worth living was the weekly ritual of sitting down with a cup of tea to watch University Challenge.

I've been watching University Challenge since the beginning of its Paxman-era comeback - when I was living at home, my parents used to watch it with calculators, adding up their scores. They were hugely competitive about it. In fact, the only screaming argument I've ever had with my mother happened when she deliberately talked over a question she knew I would otherwise have been able to answer correctly. Anyway, other than that, the main thing that I enjoyed and still enjoy about University Challenge was the totty. Other girls might get their kicks out of movie stars, sportsmen or beefcake centerfolds; I like geeks. For me, University Challenge is, honest to God, the ultimate repository of gorgeous men in the media. You can keep your Brad Pitts and your Tom Cruises - watching a bespectacled nerd answer obscure questions about 12th century monarchs gets me so hot.

This series, one particular gorgeous sexy geek caught my perverted eye. He had a big grin, a beautiful neck and a really nice lower back. And yes, I could tell that he had a nice lower back, even though I only saw him from the front - it was something about the way he leaned forward intently whilst discussing answers with his team. I was smitten. Thoughts of performing complex integration by parts with him dominated many a happy Monday night. As the tournament progressed, the programmes on which he was featured in all his nerdy glory became more frequent. Lustful thoughts about him began creeping into my everyday consciousness. By God, he was sexy. When his team - which, of course, I had been fervently supporting owing to their totty factor - eventually won the tournament, a thought occurred to me: Geeks don't often get told that they're sexy. Perhaps nobody has told him just how goddamn gorgeous he is. Perhaps he'd like to know. And this is why I sent him the following lovingly-handwritten letter:

Dear University Challenge Hottie,

I have been watching University Challenge for many years. I don't have an affiliation with any particular university, so as for supporting teams, I always simply root for the one with the the greatest number of attractive males. Throughout the last series, I have been consistently supporting your team because you are by far the yummiest specimen of gorgeousness ever to have appeared on the programme. I'd like to rip your underpants off with my teeth whilst you talk dirty to me in Ancient Greek.

I'm buggered if I'm telling you who I am - my propensity for embarrassing myself doesn't extend quite that far - but I just thought you might like to know that some random stranger has been wetting her knickers over you for the last few months. Thank you very much for making several of my Monday evenings much more entertaining.

Yours lustfully,
The Proverbial Secret Admirer


A few years later, I was toiling selling advertising space in a classical music magazine (a significant step up the sanity ladder). Bored in the office one day, trawling through the news websites, as you do, I found something that almost made me spit coffee on my monitor. He had actually quoted me in The Times:

If the cameras inspire vanity, the viewers' reaction tries to corrupt even your humblest of thoughts. One of my letters actually contained the phrase: "You are by far the yummiest specimen of gorgeousness ever to have appeared on the programme." I assure you, this is not true, even with my post-trendy Hoxton fin.

Have any other b3tans had their creepy fan mail quoted in a national broadsheet? I think not. You may click now.
(Tue 21st Apr 2009, 22:52, More)

» Too much information

Too much information about my mum's minge
My mother is a hardcore feminist. Nowt wrong with that - I'm very much a feminist myself. But unfortunately my mother is of the scary-hairy, ball-breaking, man-hating maniac variety.

Mum grew up in a very traditional family who thought that sex was Bad and Evil and Nasty and Wrong, and that her ladyparts were to be ashamed of. On the day her mother first discovered a few spots of blood on her underwear that Mum hadn't even noticed herself, she came home from school to find all the curtains drawn and her mother whispering in shameful tones about "growing up" and "women's problems" and "that time of the month".

So naturally, Mum was determined that I shouldn't have such an awful upbringing, that I should grow up with a happy, healthy attitude to sex and a good relationship with my ladyparts. So far so good. But alas, let's just say the pendulum swung rather too far in the opposite direction.

For as far back as my memory goes, she regularly tried to engage me in conversation about my vagina. She used to tell me all about her sex life at great length and in great detail. She lectured me on the harmlessness of masturbation (It's okay...as long as you wash your hands afterwards). She used to test me on all of this. Seriously, when other kids were learning to read, I was locating the clitoris on a colour-coded diagram. Then when I was fourteen, she packed me off on a week-long orchestral tour with a twelve-pack of condoms. Twelve! If I got that much sex now I'd be very happy, not to mention a bit behind on my work.

But the worst thing she ever did, worse than the masturbation tutorials, worse than inviting me to inspect her labia, was locking the two of us in a tiny toilet cubicle together and making me watch her insert a tampon. She stood up, naked from the waist down, put one pale, heavily-muscled leg up against the wall for easy access and barked a running commentary at me as she shoved a tampon into her bloody vagina, greying pubes glistening, a maniacal, I-am-woman-hear-me-roar expression in her mad, rolling eyes.

I now rebel against her by shaving my legs, wearing sparkly eyeshadow and not forcing small children to look at my vagina.
(Thu 6th Sep 2007, 15:04, More)

» Professions I Hate

Words of wisdom from my housemate
If the second part of your job title's "Agent" and the first part isn't "Secret", you're a cunt.
(Thu 27th May 2010, 15:59, More)

» The worst sex I ever had

Poo tits
Received the following email from a friend a while back. I don't think he'll mind me reposting it here...

A friend of a friend (if only it were merely an urban legend as this would suggest), was going out with a lady. The evening progressed in a manner befitting two free and single individuals and they ended up back at her house, with the intention of becoming more than usually aquainted with each other.

Before commencing their lovemaking, the female of the pairing produced a plastic sheet to put over the bed. The reason given that they were using her parents' bed, and washing the sheets afterwards (as is only polite) would leave said parents in no doubt as to what had occurred.

So, plastic-sheeted, they continued. During the process, the male was surprised to feel a silk handkerchief being inserted into what had previously only been an "out" hole. This caused him some surprise, but what with all of the carnal ecstasy he was experiencing, he decided to let it go. Events progressed and the point of no return was reached, at which precise moment, the silk handkerchief was whipped free from its warm and rectal prison.

It is a quirk of physiology that his particular combination of orgasmic pleasure and handkerchief-related stimulation causes the contents of the lower colon to sense the same freedom as the handkerchief was now enjoying, and contractions occur to facilitate its rapid escape.

At this point, our male quasi-hero was rather upset, he stayed relatively motionless, eyes closed in panic. He could only think of two possibilities. Either his companion would be disgusted, ruining any chance of more carnal delight for some while, or she would be highly amused, and he would be ridiculed.

Bracing himself, he opened his eyes to find his bedfellow lightly massaging the newly-released contents of his bowels into her mammary areas.

That, in case you are still reading, is the legend of poo-tits.
(Tue 19th Jun 2007, 21:01, More)

» Mums

Shameless repost, but I think you'll find it's very apt
My mother grew up in a very traditional family who thought that sex was Bad and Evil and Nasty and Wrong, and that her ladyparts were to be ashamed of. On the day her mother first discovered a few spots of blood on her underwear that Mum hadn't even noticed herself, she came home from school to find all the curtains drawn and her mother whispering in shameful tones about "growing up" and "women's problems" and "that time of the month".

So naturally, Mum was determined that I shouldn't have such an awful upbringing, that I should grow up with a happy, healthy attitude to sex and a good relationship with my ladyparts. So far so good. But alas, let's just say the pendulum swung rather too far in the opposite direction.

For as far back as my memory goes, she regularly tried to engage me in conversation about my vagina. She used to tell me all about her sex life at great length and in great detail. She lectured me on the harmlessness of masturbation (It's okay...as long as you wash your hands afterwards). She used to test me on all of this. Seriously, when other kids were learning to read, I was locating the clitoris on a colour-coded diagram. Then when I was fourteen, she packed me off on a week-long orchestral tour with a twelve-pack of condoms. Twelve! If I got that much sex now I'd be very happy, not to mention a bit behind on my work.

But the worst thing she ever did, worse than the masturbation tutorials, worse than inviting me to inspect her labia, was locking the two of us in a tiny toilet cubicle together and making me watch her insert a tampon. I was only four. She stood up, naked from the waist down, put one pale, heavily-muscled leg up against the wall for easy access and barked a running commentary at me as she shoved a tampon into her bloody vagina, greying pubes glistening, a maniacal, I-am-woman-hear-me-roar expression in her mad, rolling eyes.

Click "I like this" to make a Paypal donation towards my therapy bill.
(Thu 11th Feb 2010, 14:52, More)
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