Owls

August 4, 2013 § Leave a comment

I am walking through Hampstead Heath

and stop when I see a grey brick townhouse with huge windows looking out onto the green. I like it and walk up to it. I think that it is a hotel. Perhaps once a doctor’s house. I go into the garden, and walk up the window.

I am peering through the window when I see a very attractive lady on the other side.

She turns when she sees spots my head peeking in. Stopping she strolls over to the window and opens it.

“Yes?”

She looks like Juliette Binoche. Dark hair. Smoky eyes. A rough lustre in her voice. Her body is slim and taut. Like a rubber band.

“What is this?”

“It’s a hotel. Would you like to have a look?”

She says it all in a quiet cold voice. I suppose she means well.

“Yes please.”

She fully opens the window and I climb inside.

“You have a view over the park.”

“Yes. It used to be a doctor’s house.”

“Oh.”

I tell her to undress. She stands against the wall and removes her jacket, a short black and white matelasse cut to her waist, then her white, silk blouse, dropping these around her.

“Would you like a tea?”

“No thank you,” I reply.

She unzips the tweed skirt and lets it fall to the floor. Then one stocking at a time, rolling these down her long, slender legs and throwing these across the room at me. I catch one, but it costs me a little effort and I knock the chestnut table standing against the wall.

A family portrait of who I don’t know wobbles but regains its poise. She is now down to her underwear—a black see-through bra and sheer net thong. She raises one leg onto a chair and announces:

“How much more?”

“All of it.”

The very next thing I know I am eye to eye with her naked breasts. The nipples look like two owl eyes. My eyes trace down her body, over her cream skin, down past the navel, to the downy tuft of her pubis. I take a step back and strain to take the whole thing in. In essence she looks like an owl. The round, brown eyes, the black beak down below. She notices what I am thinking and immediately begins to flap her arms and make hooting noises.

She runs around the room doing this, climbing the wooden stool, up onto the table flapping her arms like a banshee. I let her finish then give her the mount of her life. When I have finished I climb back out of the window and resume my walk. Deep into the brisk, crisp Autumnal morning air.

The Stylist– the Art issue!

August 29, 2012 § Leave a comment

If, like us, you have always wondered what art is then prepare to find out.

What is art? Is it a feeling? An act? A desire? Or something deeper? In order to find out The Stylist magazine team decided to convert ourselves into an art exhibition this week by doing our work in the Saatchi gallery and carrying out spontaneous art acts.

The week was a whirl of brainstormings and other arty things. Thousands of you looked at us. Me in particular.

We decided to start the week by carrying out some random terror artacks. First stop the National on Monday!

The goal was to become an art exhibit so we all painted ourselves blue and walked into the gallery hall.

Sitting in that gallery, covered in blue paint, I felt an overwhelming sense of pain wash over my body. I think it was the consciousness of a millennia of art weighing down on me. Or perhaps it was the acidic pain burning into my skin, I don’t know. In this artistic expression I too had joined the long ranks of the artists, from Picasso to Van Gogh to Mona Lisa and was now sharing in the multifaceted telepathic brother-slash-sister hood of art. I had become a cultural terrorist.

Later that day we went into the Tate and I took a piss in the corner. I was loving this freedom of artistic expression. Eventually a black security guard came up to me and shouted at me to get out. I shouted back at him, that he was an oppressed slave like me, and to let me continue my protest, or even better, join in like he would have done in the Motherland. But he didn’t and soon the police came. I told them that it was his fault and it was all smoothed over as he was taken away in handcuffs.

This successful protest made us even more determined to do something arty. I devised the SHART! movement on Tuesday which involved Sally from HR having a dump in public places as a sign of art. My crowning moment came in Westminster Abbey. I crept into the church and told Sally to have a crap in the pulpit. I termed this movement pulpshit. A crowd of people came and watched it was so successful and Sally was led out in handcuffs and TEARS!—another success!

On Wednesday I got Susan the accounts woman to dress up as a rat. She didn’t like it and at lunchtime started to complain about feeling hungry. So we told her to go outside and forage in the bins for her food. At first she refused but then we stood around her in a circle chanting “Art, Rat, Art, Rat, Art, Rat,” and rolled her down the stairs. After lunch she came in with some kind of white sauce on her whiskers and covered in rubbish. We made her sit in the corner in the name of art.

Then later that day I decided to have a masturbate-off with this girl who I have had my eyes on who works in the filing dept. At first she refused but then I told her a story. I said if she didn’t do it she would be fired. So we sat facing each other on these revolving chairs and had a wank-off. I won, covering her in my love spray from head to toe. This was called an ARTwank.

On Thursday I noticed the gay guy who works in subs. I’ve always disliked him. He just sits around working all day. So we, me and Simona, decided basically to sellotape him to his chair. I attached a bit of tape to his arm and then spun him around really fast covering him from head to toe in tape. We then painted him blue and called him “Mummy”. And you thought art was boring!

As I sat around brooding on my next challenge I was suddenly inspired. For there, passing before my eyes was none other than the wispy-haired clitoris, Brian Sewell.

He was being quite sneaky so I told the girls to shed his clothes and staple him to the wall in a Christ pose. Someone put a pope’s hat on him and we all had a really good laff. It got a bit serious later when he passed out due to a lack of sugar in his blood system. But anyway you can’t sue art.

Later I suggested to Sue, the woman in accounts, that she cut her ear off. She refused. Apparently I was told that it could be considered an illegal offence if I forced her to do it, so we compromised and shaved off all her hair instead. Later Will Gompertz came around and we did the same to him. He kept crying to us saying “No I was growing it for Meryl, please, please, please.”

I just said chill Will its only a bit of art.

The week has been a t’riffic success. I hope you agree that we now know what art is. It’s you and its me. Infact its all of us.

love

Luella

x

15 shades of Grey…continued

July 18, 2012 § Leave a comment

In my consternation I dropped the book on the floor and ran after Norma. Unfortunately she told me to sleep in the living room, bitterness in those cruel blue eyes.

Despairingly, I chided myself. Who is this Christian Grey? What is he? Why has he usurped my place? I logged on.

My fingers raced almost as fast as my mind whirring commands out at 5 words a minute like spiders weaving a web. But the more I learnt the less I knew. This is the conundrum of Grey.

Intellect, Power, Strength, Sex. The man has it all.

I can see the reflection of my old philosophy teacher in phrases like: “Why is anyone the way they are? That’s kind of hard to answer. Why do some people like cheese and other people hate it? Do you like cheese?”

He is a family man. “Sh–! It’s my mother,” he cries after one vigorous romp. At times he is romantic: “I’ve never had vanilla sex before. There’s a lot to be said for it. But then, maybe it’s because it’s with you.” At times a gentle-man: “Miss Steele, you are not just a pretty face. You’ve had six orgasms so far and all of them belong to me.”

“Wow,” I whispered to myself.

Christian is Dionysius Aloysius all rolled into one. The very epitome of macho. The man I could have been.

“Meee,” I wailed to myself in despair.

But this was not the end of my curiosity. My feverish fingers looked for more information. Soon I found an intellectual’s forum for well-read women to talk to others of equal intelligence. I joined it under the pseudonym Norma (God forgive me).

“If Mr Grey and Miss Steele only have happy ends, then great, as women we now expect more, so step it up guys, one happy ending isn’t enough, we like multiples now!” said Ffiona.

Jackie countered any objections to the book with the simple, yet emotional plea:

“If this book is so bad why has it sold so many copies?”

And then came the final stage of my self-discovery. I needed to know who was this EL James? Who was this man who could capture the innate sexuality of the masculine sex so perfectly.

How wrong I was. For I learnt that EL James was a woman! This inflamed me even more. Groping into the internight I sought out a photo of this woman. Who was this enchantress that could write like this. My inner God flew higher than he ever had. I trembled like a blade of grass in the Arctic wind. My popsicle shook like a Jew’s harp. Perhaps we were meant to be together.

Her photo. O my word.

David Cameron writes

July 17, 2012 § Leave a comment

“David, David, David. Let’s tell it like it is,” comes a voice like smooth mocchiato from the other end. “You’ve bent over and let yourself get shafted by practically every politician in Europe. What is wrong with you? What do you believe in David?”

I clench my hand into a ball, but leave the thumb poking out in case I need to point at someone. My head is spinning.

“Lord Barack, look I am the PM of the UK and I won’t be spoken to like that.”

“Grow a pair of nutz you English Limey. C’mon let’s tell it like it is.  No more beating around the bush. It  is, repeat after me…. A CLUSTER FUCK. Ok?”

I put down the phone and let out a deep sigh.

“What do you believe in David?” The words echo like a vibrating harp in my mind.

What do I believe in? I believe in the forests. I believe in people. I believe in the right to eat and drink. I believe in my pet beagle Alfie. I believe in our daughter….Rachel.

But most of all I believe in music. I was the first boy in Eton to get into hip hop. All the way from Mousse T to Chaka Demus and pliers. They gave me respeck then.

I decide to put on the latest Riahanna remix, and am bogling in the front room when Sam comes in and tells me to turn it down.

“Chillaxe bitch,” I say, when whap, she slaps me across the face.

I’m lying in a heap on the floor and wondering where it all went wrong.

3pm press conference

It’s true things haven’t been easy ride these past few years. They got me on Eton, they got me on Bullingdon, my double first at Oxford wasn’t good enough for them. I’ve tried to dumb down, act black, act poor you know but no. They still hate me. So no more Mr Nice Guy. I walk into the room and smooth my lapels.

“Quite frankly the situation in Europe is terrible. The only way to describe it is as a cluster fuck.”

Later that evening I am curled on the sofa watching the news, really feeling down about life. Obama is being interviewed:

“Describing the situation in those terms is frankly unhelpful and potentially counter-productive. I mean God– and I’m talking black, white or brown– only knows what he was thinking.”

15 shades of grey

July 16, 2012 § Leave a comment

“O God John, no!”

Those were the words uttered by my wife Norma last week, signalling a grave moment in our relationship. I will recount the tale here. But be warned this is not for innocent eyes:

“It is a bitterly cold evening as my wife Norma and I sit infront of the hearth warming ourselves. I wrapped in my wool cardigan, holding a cup of cocoa peruse the internet for Anthony Beevers while Norma reads a work of modern literature entitled Fifty Shades of Grey. It is a book, she says, on the virtues of temperance. I too believe in the virtues of grey and am particularly satisfied by her reply.

Ten O’ clock and Norma has retired to bed. I am still quite wide awake though. The potent concoction of Ovaltine and chocolate has rendered me with a fizz of energy. Perhaps, I think, I will take a look inside her book and thus drift off to a clement sleep. I turn the page. ‘Tis a pleasant opening. A narrative by a rather sprightly woman. Perhaps it is a modern Little Women. Ah indeed, it is a typical work of Christian chastisement and homely didacticism. Most pleasing. Observe as he is throwing her over his knee. Now he is spanking. But wait. I read on. Hmmm, I do not understand. The spanking appears to be pleasurable. Now he is removing her clothes?! This does not look like your normal work of Christian literature.

[Ed: the page is obscured by several chocolatey splashes here]

O God. This is my fate. Yes it is true I too did once purchase a pornographic magazine. It was on the very day that I started as junior home secretary in 1976.

I still remember the terror that addled my brain as I travelled on the central line into work with the soft pornography magazine inside my briefcase alongside a cheese sandwich, an apple, and a photo of Norma. O God the fear, the terror that I might be found out! I had, of course, locked my briefcase with both a seven-digit combination and security key which I hung around my neck. And yet my mind quivered with fright! What if it fell open on the train? What if a thief purloined it and discovered the contents? What if, somebody with X-ray spectacles, such as were all the rage those days, was able to see inside? What if, what if?! I would be ruined.

Yes, I will admit that I was a quavering wreck by the time I reached Whitehall. The experience was akin to an Edgar Allen Poe story I had read in my youth in which a beating heart so hounds the subject that he throws himself into the arms of the law. Yes I almost gave myself up to the police plebs that guard Westminster. This experience was preternaturally thrilling and so I vowed never to buy another magazine of this nature ever again. Fortunately that was when Norma came into my life.

But that was always a man’s privilege. Things are so different these days. Boys as young as sixteen will peruse the internet looking for images of women in states of disrepair. Men send each other blue photographs of their wives in the toilet. In my curious and inflamed sense of despair I decide to find out more about this Christian Grey? Who is he? What is he? And how is he….I peruse the internet to find out more. There someone has constructed an image of him. I see it.

He is indeed a beautiful man. I think of Harry Hotspur. “And on this day which man shall hold his manhood cheap.”

But my own beacon is all burnt out. Flames of youth quenched. Now indeed all is grey. Woman thy name is vice…O no my hand has slipped. I find myself on a website called bangmeonthebus.

God what is this, I must get it off the computer. Quick, quick I hear footsteps on the landing. It’s Norma! O god I’ve clicked close and four more pornographic pages have sprung up.iee close, close you filth close. Nooooo…..it’s too late.
Norma appears at the door. She catches me peering into this hideous convocation of images. No Norma no it is not as you think. I was just curious.

“Is this what it has come to John? Arousing yourself over pornography?”
“No Norma no I merely wanted to see what you were reading. I thought it was a book on temperance for god’s sake!”
“There is no such thing as temperance anymore John. Why don’t you grow up and get into the 21st century.”

She walks off. I am destroyed. It’s just like the time the backbenchers revolted over the council tax. I sit and stare forlornly at the screen…look at it, pages of pages of naked women enjoying flagellation, extreme upskirts, voyeur cams, sybian machines, girltogirl munch….”

The Cricket Diaries

April 17, 2012 § Leave a comment

New! Click below! Sex!

http://cricketerdiaries.wordpress.com/

Finny’s Cricket Diary

April 17, 2012 § Leave a comment

Read the full diary here

Finny on… getting lost

“Waheeeeey. Beeeeeers. Wheeeee.

It’s fair to say that we hit the beers pretty hard after winning the T20 series in Abu Dhabi to mark a successful end to the one-day leg of the tour. Fortunately there was a club in the hotel that made it a lot easier to stumble to our rooms. I still managed to get lost on the way to mine…uh hur a hur.

I basically crawled into a darkened room, thinking it was my own. As I got into bed I noticed a shape lying next to me—it was Sachin Tendulkar! He woke up and asked me what the hell I was doing there.

“God I don’t know I said, I got lost. What’s the big deal anyway?”

“Please kindly leave now.”

“Well at least let me go for a piss before I leave.”

I went into his loo and took a big piss. I could hear him getting agitated outside. Eventually, at the end of the day, I left.

As I was going out I could see him on the phone to security. I mean Jesus, the man has no humour!”

Finny on… benefits with friends

“Literally I love beer.

A hur a hur. Jimmy kindly asked me to help him out by attending a dinner for his benefit – he’s never spoken to me that nicely before, but I knew he wanted something. And I knew that whatever it would be it would be something really funny and amusing and drinking related. A hur a hur. Well when I turned up I found him and Swanny on stage crawling about on all fours. One of them had a beer glass strapped to top of his head the other was trying grab it in his mouth. They kept chasing each other round in circles like two dog! Clueless!

Then you know what? We ALL had a beer, got topless, tied our ties around our heads and started to piss around for forty odd minutes. It was great fun. I was sick everywhere. Jimmy was sick all over Swanny. Then one of them was sick into a glass and I drank it.Wahaaaaay!!!! These lads are some of the funniest guys I’ve ever meet. And now so am IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII! Wahayyyy. God I love a bevvy.”

Finny on WAGS

“The arrival of wives and girlfriends is always a happy time for the lads, however, I didn’t have anyone jetting over to see me. Ah well back to my solitary masturbatory ways! Only kidding. You think I’d do that??! I mean have you seen some of the prostitutes out there in Colombo. Cor, you could fall in love all over again. Only kkkkidding!! I don’t use prossies. Nor does Swanny! U hur a hur.

I am renowned for being a bit of a trash telly junkie, which isn’t looked upon lightly in the dressing room. My favourite is Jeremy Kyle. Next is Geordie Shore. Then the Apprentice. Next is TOWIE. Followed by the X Factor. Then comes Pete and Jordan show. Next is I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here. Also House. Then there’s Britain’s Got Talent.

I will however draw the line at Big Brother. It’s lost all its charm in recent years. It’s pretty disappointing how things like that can go downhill so quickly!

Anyway the opportunity to have a proper chinwag with a few of the girls about the trashy reality TV back in England was absolutely brilliantttttt. All the mind-numbing, brain destroying, personality warping stuff that have made the English the superior race of individuals they are today! Wa heeeyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.

Anyway I even borrowed a few of their magazines—Vogue, UKGT, Playgirl— but none of the boys know this, so keep that to yourselves! Please. Shhh wink wink.”

Finny on… after-dinner activities

“The evenings in Sri Lanka are beautiful outside the hotel, and beyond the curtains, but the most important action happens behind closed doors (get your minds out of the gutter). It’s sex of course! The boys like to chow down at about 11 o clock. Andy Flower is the worst of the lot. Like a perverted ringmaster he leads us into phantastical processions of mind bending depravity which neither human nor animal could ever imagine. Wahaaaaay!”

Finny on… Bressy’s literary skills

“Tim Bresnan has limited literary skills. Full stop. He was in charge of writing the lads’ names on the bottles for the first Test. I’d say the lads have some pretty easy names to spell. Cooky, Straussy, Belly, Finny, Anderson. Easiest of the lot I reckon could be Broady… Bres couldn’t decide whether it had an extra ‘R’ in it. Or an I.

Ah well. It is who he his. You’ll often find him huddled in the corner of the dressing room, crouched into a ball, looking back at us. More Neanderthal than man he sits there giving us dark shifty glances, brows furrowed, hands clasped in agony. A doctor came to look at him once and just said “This man needs an emergency operation.

Well I don’t know!”

copyright AOC

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 118 other followers