Like a firm, ripe, peach

I think that I speak for us all when I suggest that at some time, each and every one of us has been subjected to a young schoolboy's bottom.

Whether it has been due to its constant emission of noxious gasses, or its frequent companion, the loud, moist, noisome retort. Or it may be for more nefarious reasons, you may be a high muck-a-muck in the Catholic Church, or have been a Radio DJ in the 1970's for instance.

But imagine for a second that you are the wife of a 76 year old Tory Peer who made his name by noticing an Iraqi supergun and destroying the Halesowen metalwork business that had helped to build the Titanic in the process, and made his (vast amounts of) cash by working for Lloyds and various other City financial institutions.  Some of which was given back to the Conservative Party JUST before he became a Peer.

(FOR LEGAL REASONS I SHOULD LIKE TO JUST POINT OUT THAT THE DONATION OF A RELATIVELY SMALL SUM OF MONEY, FOR A MULTI-MILLIONAIRE AT LEAST, TO THE CONSERVATIVE PARTY HAS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH THE PERSON, MICROSECONDS LATER, BEING NAMED A PEER AND GAINING A SEAT IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS, EVEN THOUGH THIS TYPE OF TITLE IS MORE USUALLY HEREDITARY, AND PASSED FROM PARENT TO CHILD)

So, if you were that person, how do you think you would usually interact with young boy's bottoms?

No, that's Reverend Paul Flowers you're thinking of, he's the one with all the drugs and the bumming.* Try again...

Picture the scene, after a number of years, your husband has finally convinced you that going to watch 'The Rugger' is a respectable pastime, and not at all like being found in bed with a Supermodel on a Saturday afternoon... He has also convinced you to accompany him to 'Twickers' for all three of England's Autumn International matches on three consecutive Saturdays, despite you thinking that it's all a bit sordid and homo-erotic.  The roads are busy with plebs, going about just doing whatever it is plebs do. There was even the occasional coach full of ruddy-faced schoolboys, full of high spirits, jolly japes and jam roly-poly.

Maybe I should let David, Baron James of Blackheath (for it is indeed he), tell his wife's story from here, just as he told it to his peers (who all happen to be Peers - lol! - geddit?) in the House of Lords:

'She was totally horrified by the sight of the school buses coming down the road to Twickenham filled full of children who were indulging in a pastime I believe is called mooning.

I am not going to explain it to your lordships as we are in mixed company.

The sight of some 40 school children mooning simultaneously is not a pretty sight. She was horrified.

My wife is a youth justice officer and she watched as the police motorbikes went zooming past these kids giving them a friendly wave as they went and she said: "We have a law against this sort of thing. Why aren't they being brought into court - I would put them away for a year if I got them".'

Three thing strike me as odd about this story:

1. I can't imagine that she's never been in the room when a young boy's hindquarters have been roughly unveiled*
2. She wants the sentence for 'mooning' to be 12 months incarceration 
3. England got stuffed by New Zealand (Actually, there might only be two odd things in the list)

Now, mooning has been a traditional way of cocking a snook at figures of authority for hundreds of years and is, 999 times out of a thousand taken in good humour by people who unexpectedly come across another person's bare buttocks** (as displayed by the police officers in the above story)

It just goes to show how out of touch and easily outraged some people are.  Especially odd when you consider that when news stories involving those sort of people's husbands regularly include the words 'Gold' and 'Bullion' they don't seem to get half as outraged about those.

If she were in New Zealand of course, she would have every right to be outraged, the indigenous population over there have a thing called Whakapohane which is like mooning, but it's intended to be deeply offensive and symbolises the act of giving birth.

But if you really want to illustrate the logical conclusion, the zenith, the very epitome of 'Mooning gone wrong' You have to go back to the first recorded instance of intentional mooning.  In the first century AD, the Jewish-Roman historian and Hagiographer Titus Flavius Josephus recalls an occasion where a Roman Soldier mooned a group of passing Jewish Pilgrims on their way to the Temple in Jerusalem.  There was a localised riot, which the local Roman garrison countered in their usual fashion and many hundreds (if not thousands, depending on your historical source) of people were put to the Gladius that day with extreme prejudice.

-oOo-

On a slightly more personal note, you'll be glad to hear that I was once involved in the planning of a public spectacle that was aimed at... Well, I'm not 100% sure what the aim was, I think it was just one of those 'Hold me beer and watch this' things - It was to take place in the small Derbyshire town of Melbourne and it went by the name 'Mmmmm' Which stood for the wonderfully alliterative: '(T)he Massed Midnight Moon (I)n Melbourne Marketplace' - I say that I took place in the planning, but I didn't say anything about being involved in the taking part.

I mean, I probably did, but I honestly can't remember, as I was very, very, drunk by about 10:30 and it was a long time ago.

If you feel that you have, in some way missed out on all these rectal hi-jinks and have not been witness to my broad, British buttocks before, please send a stamped, addressed envelope to the usual address and I will send you a photograph of my rear end by return... Well, as soon as I can find time to balance myself precariously on top of the A3 colour photocopier at least.




* Allegedly
** Sorry, couldn't resist (Which, oddly is what is normally said under those circumstances)

My Interview with iBazinga Magazine

A few weeks ago, I was approached by absolutely nobody, and asked if, as I was a rising star of the Internet, who regularly attracts double-figure numbers of page hits on his Blog, quite literally, almost every day, I would like to do an interview for a completely ficticious Technology Magazine called iBazinga.

At first I refused, partly because I am, by nature, a very private soul and do not like to talk about myself, but mostly it's because the magazine doesn't exist and it was just the voices in my head making me the offer, which is better than the normal 'Burn this, the duct-tape will quiet her filty noise' style advice I normally get from them.

So, on a rainy Wednesday, in the past, I didn't find myself in a suite on the 30th floor of the Park Lane Hilton, in London, talking to a made-up journalist about myself.

-oOo-

So, Mr Dandy, thank you for agreeing to this interview, I'm sure a lot of our readers would like to know a little bit about the man behind the T-Shirt with the amusing Pangolin motif.

Well, thank you Brian, may I call you Brian?

 
My name's actually Tracy...

Righty-ho, so, Brian, I'm glad that you asked me that, it's nice for me to finally get to set the record straight. I mean, there are people out there who think I'm just a megalomaniac with a God complex who somehow thinks that his opinions are more important than anyone else's.

 
I'm sure nobody thinks that, all of our readers who bothered to send questions in were generally very complimentary about your writing style, and didn't find it to be syrupy self-aggrandizement at all.

Ah, good, you say that people sent in questions? For me? How very lovely.

 
Yes indeed, we have one here from Michael Stibberly in Kuwait. 'Do you have a big family?'

Big? No, not really big as such, There's the Wife, Mrs Dandy, my Daughter, the MiniDandy - who has her own Blog, my Son, who has asked for his name to be witheld because it might impact his scrap metal and drive tarmacing business, my pigeon shattering Father and very occasionally the Ghost of my Dead Mother, who may, or may not, be scared of the Hoover. We've also got family who live on a little island in the Med and still more, just around the corner. Actually I guess it is a fairly sizeable brood.

 
Miss Sybil Von Daniken of Poole in Dorset writes 'You speak of GodS all the time, rather than God, the Saviour, The Father, The One True God... Did you know that you are going to Hell and will spend eternity in torment, pursued by Satan's imps with their constantly stabbing pitchforks?'

Nope, I think I'll be fine. I'm all about the whole Supreme Being idea, but whether that Being is the Judeo-Christian God, a Bowl of Spaghetti & Meatballs or a bunch of guys with oversized heads wearing a lovely tinfoil ensemble designed by some 'Space' Vivienne Westwood then that's OK with me. I mean, imagine the feeling when you get up to Heaven and there are as many Gods as there are people, and we've all got one each.

 
Marion D'la Plume D'ma Tante asks, 'We all know that you are something of an IT Guru, but have you ever done anything else?'

Funny you should ask that, I was talking to one of my ex customers only a few months back, I have spent time as a licensed Door Supervisor, a Fetish Model and a card-carrying Superhero - I'll leave it to your imagination as to exactly which one the person was a customer of. And I've recently also become a published Author.

 
A quick one from Simon Whatstandwell all the way from Rutherford, New Joisey. 'Do you really think that Pandas are the next big worry, greater than global warming, greater than Earth being hit by a comet, meterorite or alien spacecraft full of marauding, Oh, I don't know, flesh eating... Ermm.. Cats with spiky helmets?' - I'm sorry, I think that that question might have gotten away from the asker there a little bit!

That's fine Brian, it happens to me all the time! - Yes, I seriously believe that Pandas are the furry mammal equivalent of the Communist sleeper cell. At a pre-arranged time, they will rise up, take control, and subjugate mankind under their little part-formed thumbs. It'll be quick, bloody, and the cupcake shops with probably fall first. And just for completeness, I believe that all cats have spiky helmets.

 
Yes... Quite... Only a couple more questions, and then we can let you go. We received this one, written in crayon, which is very odd when you consider that it was sent by email, it is signed, but the signature is sadly illegible. Going by the address of the sender, it comes from Frankie.D'Souza@HouseOfLords.gov.uk and reads 'When you is growing up and stuff, who is it you wanna be, like, innit?'


Ah, little Frankie, I remember her well, Beautiful plumage... In recent times I have come to realise that the person I want to be when I grow up is me, but with a lot more cash, and some pet killer whales. But when I was but a young slip of a Dandy, and Chimping was the furthest thing from my mind, I wanted to be Martin Shaw off of Judge John Deed.

 
And finally, Cyril, Haha! Francoise Goebbels from the lovely province of Alberta in Canadiashire has asked the question that is on the tip of everyone's tongue, 'Dandy, how did you, mild mannered IT professional by day, pay as you go doppelganger and haddock worrier by night, become the Chimping Dandy.'

Brian, Brain, Brian... It's a well known fact that secret identities are secret for a reason, they protect the families and loved ones of the... erm... person who has decided to have a secret identity, for which I'm sure there is a proper noun. So, I have changed the names, crossed the 'I's and dotted the 'T's to make sure that the story is as safe as I can possibly make it. I can't be held responsible, well, for anything really, as I'm a bit infantile, but mostly I can't be held responsible for any personal harm that may befall you if you read.... The Origin of The Chimping Dandy.

 
Well, that was informative, thank you very much Mr Dandy, we'll be sure to let you know when the interview is published. The readers of iBazinga magazine thank you and hope you a long and happy Blogging experience.

-oOo-

And that's where the interview ended, I looked around and realised that I wasn't actually in a suite, on a non-existant floor of the tallest hotel in London, I was lying on the carpet, in the lounge, with a trickle of Irn Bru coming out of my nose and a very puzzled looking cat breathing its fishy breath into my mouth and licking my teeth.

Another normal day at Dandy Towers, I'm sure you'll agree. Enjoy your weekend, and if you do something exciting, don't forget to tell me about it - It could make you famous.


Yes, I realise you've seen all this stuff before, think of it as the Mid-Season Clip Show - If it's good enough for NBC then it's good enough for you lot.