Feb 08 2012
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Contributor

PMS: #megafuckfuckfuck

PMS has written PORNOSCOPY for a good couple of months now, but it is only recently that we have discovered that she has also written for the Guardian newspaper (of course it should have been obvious by the calibre of her writing). 

The line ‘I’d jump you like a hurdle’ had me grasping for the indecently small scrap of lace I call underwear in the dim shadows which that morning light threw into the room, tip-toeing round the room mentally screaming ‘fuckfuckfuck’. Wincing as the floor creaked beneath me, why does everything seem so bloody loud when you’re trying to play slut-ninja? Flashbacks from the night before dance in my head, taunting me fleetingly and leaving me feeling increasingly sick. Fuckfuckfuck. Pants, missing. Bankcard, missing. Dignity, long gone.

#Megafuckfuckfuck.

Though this isn’t your ordinary run of the mill one night stand with a faceless stranger I won’t care to remember a couple months down the line. This was an ex-boyfriend.

Huge, #megafuckfuckfuck with bollocks on top.

Personally, sleeping with an ex is the coital version of shitting on your own doorstep. It just shouldn’t be done. Regardless of who did the dumping, it’s just so emotionally messy. After sex one should have a glow of pure bliss, and walk as if they are springing from clouds of job, not spent sulking in the shower because you can’t seem to wash off the smell of his aftershave. It shouldn’t need constant questioning and debating over – but with an ex all sorts of ideas and thoughts are thrown in your face. Are we getting back together? Does he still like me? Does this make anything different?
And in reality the answers are: no you’re not getting back together, no he doesn’t like you, and yes things will change. He’ll start ignoring you again.

Catastrophic, huge, #megafuckfuckfuck with herpes riddled bollocks on top.

Slow and steady may win the race, and the town mouse may learn a lot from the country mouse, but don’t fuck an ex.

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Feb 07 2012
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Travel

Amsterdam Vol I

Last weekend I took a little trip to Amsterdam to really get to grips with the history and culture of this famous city, and definitely not visit any of the more salubrious institutions. I was, therefore, very surprised one evening when I found myself in the heart of the red light district at two in the morning facing a big, neon-lit entrance to ‘La vie en Rose’ which is, surprisingly, Amsterdam’s only strip club. Now the way this event should have panned out is, after my previous strip club antics, I should have known better and turned around and walked straight back to my hotel room. However some sort of binding curse was on me I felt the urge to join the queue of 40+ men to the entrance.

When entering a club there are always a few things which people should always look for, in order to check that it is a fine an establishment as possible. Firstly that the entrance doesn’t look grotty, ( this rule doesn’t apply if your going dubbing), however this club was at the end of the alley inbetween a brothel and a gate, which looked distinctly like someone had been raped against it.  Secondly you want to see that the people who are leaving are in a good mood and enjoying themselves. As I was in the queue a group of guys leaving got into an arguement with the door man, what followed was possibly the most unsubtle way to beat the shit out of someone. The bouncer simply locked the door with the guys inside and then opened it three minutes later and a guy with a facefull of blood stumbled out. Classy eh? Now why the fuck didn’t I leave?

So after paying our five euro entrance fee we rushed through the entrance of this sleaze den, looking forward to the prospects of what was inside. What awaited us was what appeared to be a scene out of a film. If you have seen The Shining it was exactly like that scene where ‘Johnny’ imagines a stunning woman standing nude in front of him who then rapidly turns into a diseased grandma. Okay, maybe these strippers didn’t have obvious signs of diseases (that is not to say they didn’t have any), but really, they were old and past their sell by date. One could see that maybe 20 years previously these girls would have been a lot of fun, they had that GILFy potential, but not now, not when we were there. I wouldn’t have minded too much if they were actually good at what they were doing, but from observing other desperate men, the lap dances they were giving seemed less erotic dancing and more like a floundering beached whale, grinding itself into the sand.

After witnessing a whale massacre, only the navy of Japan could have undertaken,  I ended up paying £6 for a drink. we swiftly left and were soon back out in the grotty alley, wondering if we were going to be the next innocent, tight-arsed teens to be raped up against that gate. Now, I know I said this after the last strip club post, but really this time I mean it, I am staying out of strip clubs for a good long time, they just aren’t for me. I mean the idea sounds great but they are always just that little bit too seedy (or in Prague, just too hardcore). If one day I come across a smart, welcoming middle class strip club which is very conservative in the services it offers I might consider. What I’m looking for is good décor, classy music (I’m talking big band in the corner), well priced wine, suits only and a ban on the words “baby” and “slut”. God damn it, I want CIGARS!

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Feb 06 2012
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Social Anthropology

Pick flicking and string fingers – The average Guitar Obsessive

There is a certain breed of human who share similar characteristics. They can be bearded, anorak clad, binoculared train spotters or trainee clergymen, hermetically sealed in a stark, whitewashed room trying to find God in a Bible. I am one of these people. I don’t care about the 13:48 to Bristol Temple Meads or what John 15:3 says about the nature of God in relation to human sin. I am part of a global movement. The guitar enthusiasts. The irony is that I am average at best when it comes to actually playing one of these things.

I find them just sublime, each of them has a story, they talk of frustration and ecstasy, the excitement of being able to play a song is unmatchable. I have never had guitar lessons (and yes, I do make sure people know) so there retains in me a sense of mysticism when it comes to music. I speak a sort of pigeon music, in which I can only work out what these obsessives mean after a Bletchley style decoding. Guitars, on the other hand, are stunningly simple. The sleek stained wood, the polished tuning pegs and scratch plates. The iconic saddle on a Fender Telecaster is something most people would recognise, even if they don’t have a clue about these instruments. It has a sort of 50′s chic to it that has been externalised by caricatures of men in suits, slick backs and Ray-Ban spectacles, gently wobbling back and forth to the simple chorus. The early Beatles, The Animals, The Yardbirds, Buddy Holly.

It is, like the sleek Lotus and a pair of Holland and Hollands, an extension of the male member. Search any pictures of Hendrix on google and your’ll see what I mean; the way he handles it it with tenderness, it is an expression of a sexual animal. This is why girls who play guitar still seem novel to us (they are Taiwanese lady-boy of the music industry).I’m sure you know a guitar guy, like bikers when they meet another they can tell.  Perhaps its the thick skin on the tips of their fingers (usually on left left hand, unlike Hendrixs himself). Or perhaps it’s the constant tapping, to some kind of unhearable beat (watch for this especially when listening to music, the nodding of the head, the slap of the thigh are all give aways).

This summer I will be fulfilling a dream, I have decided to build my own type of cigar box guitar (like the one Seasick Steve is playing above). It’s based on one I saw online a a couple of months ago, it’s an ammo box guitar. Six stringed, fretboard and neck salvaged from an old Squire, I’m going to build the main body out of an ex-military ammunitions tin, coupled with the brass heads from shotgun cartridges for the volume and tone knobs (I know, fucking awesome, right?). This is not a cool project however, it is pretty much the same as Airfix in my mind.  But, I can’t fucking wait, I feel like a 9 year old boy with my tacky plastic Spitfire, only this time it’s just a bit more acceptable.

Here are my plans, like I said, 9 year old boy



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Feb 01 2012
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Awkwardness

Defusing the Jagerbomb

This grinning fuck led me astray

There is a line I’ve been mulling over in my mind for the last couple of days now. It goes something like this “You know you’ve really lost all grasp of dignity when you’re hurling up soggy pork scratchings and Jagerbombs in a pub car park.” Well that was going to be my first line, but I couldn’t do it, writing that just hurt too much. I am not proud of what I did, although I feel a sense of catharsis in getting this off my chest.

You see it wasn’t completely my fault, one of the worst traps to fall into in polite company is to accept all alcohol that’s handed to you. It’s happened to me once before at an MP’s house just after Christmas (don’t worry I didn’t chunder, I just made a few off-key feminist jokes, I think he enjoyed it). So, diligently, I slurped up all the Merlot (and later the Jagerbombs that were handed to me) and inevitably, I found myself lying in the back seat of a friends car, -3°C, open shirted and confused, horribly horribly confused. There is so much more I could write about, like drink driving and nearly dying of alcohol poisoning but there are far more interesting things.

I don’t know why I write these things to be honest, I can only embarrass myself, and yet its like a sort of therapy, some fucked up therapy. Like Watson in the BBC1 Sherlock, maybe I’m actually just a fucking good wingman. I need to find my Sherlock (not in some weird, pseudo-sexual way) but I think if I’m Watson then you can’t hate me can you? Good old Watson, he puts the kettle on whilst Holmes is saving the world.

(Just a little addition, I stopped off at the Sherlock Holmes museum after a little party at Quentin’s house, severely hung over. I was dressed in blue cords, shirt and long overcoat clutching at a German accordion #weirdshithappenswhenwegetdrunk. Anyway, its a pile of wank, they try to pretend that Sherlock Holmes was a real person. E.G. “This was Mr. Holmes’ bedroom, this is were he did his experiments” a little note to the Sherlock Holmes Society, not all tourists are Japanese or stupid, some of know about Conan Doyle) Rant over.

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Jan 31 2012
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Uncategorized

Apologies

Just a quick apology to all of our followers and readers, we have of late been a touch lazy on the writing side. Although we have come up with a few new plans to entertain you all.

1. Fuck Hero of the Week, it’s boring and none of you want to trawl through that drivel.

2. We are getting stickers made for the blog. Basically if you go into a pub toilet (males only I’m afraid, we’re not that perverted) and there is a PORNOSCOPY sticker on the back of the door, you know we’ve been there.

3. Recently I have become somewhat inspired by public lavatories and so our third plan is this. You know when you go into a toilet and someones written “Horny little slut looking for some big cock – call 07698 BLAH BLAH BLAH” well we are going to either text or ring that person and when ever we’ve got enough funny stories to do with shitter whores then we’ll make a little post.

4. If you want us to write something get in touch. We’d love to hear your questions and suggestions, share us around, send us hate mail, cyber bully us. Fuck it, we don’t care just do something.

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Jan 15 2012
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Uncategorized

Clearly the best solution involves porn… And black duct tape. What? Ohhhhh, those boxes are to censor the porn? Not as fun.-Kitten

Jan 11 2012
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Sexually Repulsive

A ponder on prostitution

Just been reading this blog, www.betedenuit.blogspot.com (translation: Beast of the Night) it is basically a middle aged guy describing his exploits in the various walk ups in Soho. Well it has kind of put me off prostitution for life, not that I was ever really into it, but hearing him talking about his ‘willy going hard’ and how he is paying £30 extra every time for sex without a condom has freaked me out.

My thinking – Firstly if I was using a prostitute I would probably be thinking that ten other slimy guys have also been there, nestled deep where I am now in the last few hours alone. Not a pleasant thought. And no it’s not the same as some teenage hormone fest at a underage disco, these are the penis’ of 50 year old men we are talking about. As one guy quoted on the infamous prostitute review site www.punternet.com:

“The most battered and beaten, gaping hole in Soho. I’m reasonably well endowed (7 – 7.5″ depending on the girl, weather or mood) but I could hardly touch the sides.”

Is that really what I want to spend that £50 which grandad gave me for christmas on?

Secondly, I don’t want to sound snobby, but hearing this sex-crazed guy talk about how special it was that they kissed ‘with tongues’  freaked me out. For a bit I thought that it wouldn’t be like that If I had been there, well, because she would probably find me more attractive than the rest of her clients. However now it has dawned on me that in her eyes, I am just cash, the difference for her between buying that Starbucks on the way to the ‘office’ (in her case I think it needs inverted commas) or getting a nice vagina wax in time for her regular client on Friday.

Thirdly, clambering up the stairs of a little ‘walkup’ in Soho must be one of those kind of epiphany moments where you realise you really are at a low point in your life. Imagine the guilt when walking up those narrow staircases, I would hope that the girl I chose would be on the lowest floor so this feeling was as short as possible . I am sure clients compare it to the ‘stairway to heaven’, but the stairs to heaven aren’t grotty, smell of bodily fluids and definitely don’t have  ’sexy model mandy’ written on cheap tacky cardboard on the way up. I mean if I was going get excited by the prospect of seeing mandy, I doubt the Hi-Vis cardboard would have much effect.

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Jan 03 2012
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Social Anthropology

Weird: The New Sexy

So in my eyes there are two kinds of beauty, classical and current. The former is the kind of face and style that wouldn’t be out of place in a period drama, the kind of girl that will always be beautiful. They have been the centre of literature since it’s very birth from Shakespeare’s Desdemona to Brontë’s Cathy, our current day example being our very own Kate Middleton (oh what joy). They are elegant, innocent and unblemished. However the second camp is far, far more interesting.

Oscar Wilde once remarked, in one of those comments that sounds off the cuff but you know in actual fact he had spent months agonising over it, “Fashion is something so ugly we have to change it every six months.” Well the second kind of beauty, that which I have named current is concerned with fashion. And, as far as I can tell, the fashion at the moment is weird. From “jeggings” with Chairman Mao’s face printed on them to tasteless Scandinavian jumpers, fashion seems to be anything that, until now was just to brash or ugly to be cool. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for it, wearing weird clothes and piercing yourself in weird ways is pretty cool, but I foresee problems.

Now, this new fashion seems to come mainly from the bargain bins outside Oxfam and other charity shops. So, inevitably the source of all this vintage clothing must dry up, only so many old people can die every year. So the next best thing is American Apparel, or any of these other trendy tank top peddlers. Or, alternatively, you can hike all the way out to Camden to find some knitter jumper ‘Emporium’ in which you can pay over the odds for what is essentially, excessively price charity shop booty. But here lies the real problem, with all these nice middle class girls all trying to show how different they are, with their hair dyed pink and their eyebrows, pierced and packed with tacky plastic trinkets, its not going to be that weird any more. I am not aghast when I see a girl with a massive tribal hoop in her ear, its just not that shocking.

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Dec 24 2011
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Meditations

The Art of Swearing

Swearing is an art form. Being able to pick the adjectives and syllables that engender powerful emotional states is the muggle equivalent of avada kedavra. “You cocking cunt,” just won’t cut the cussing mustard; the phonic strength of the assonance is good but it sounds like a jibe of desperation rather than one intended to harm. The adjective is key, fucking is a good starting point but I find that the less actual swearing the better. For example, “you filthy fucking, son of a bitch, cunt licking, whore hunting, cock-mouthed peasant,” is okay and the onslaught of flowery alliteration is good here but again I think it’s not quite as powerful as it could be.

From my years of experience the best abuse comes in a flurry of description with the odd gem of standard cuntification. Take note, ” You’re a nasty little piece of work, none of us like you, you clearly have a defective personality. The first time I met you I thought you were some sort of dirty little sociopath but I finally realise I was wrong. You are a cunt, nothing more, nothing less. And that is why I, and everyone else who knows you, despises your very skin and bone.” This is hurtful, this really cuts deep. This verbal assault is not an abundance of poorly cobbled together generic swear words but a personal attack. It has been tailored towards the person to whom you are blasting your two barrels of blasphemy.

So, at this very special time for drunken debauchery and family fuck ups, it is imperative that our swearing is top fucking notch. Get it right people, for the sake your dignity. Real gentlemen wear suits from Saville Row, genuine disputers scorn with synonyms.

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Dec 22 2011
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Hero of the Week

Hero of the Week: Christopher Hitchens


I have been waiting to write this post for quite some time. I was hoping it wouldn’t be any time soon but sadly I was called into action on the 15th of December. One of my absolute and truest of heroes is dead.

He was a real polemicist, not merely railing against the easy targets or those who are the brunt of sensationalist journalism. He famously denounced Mother Theresa, not just in an article as some sort of publicity stunt but a well thought and fought out book. He was not merely attempting to drum up readership but genuinely believed the world needed to see the hypocrisy of those held in such high esteem by the western world. In his later life he became a pioneer of the new atheist movement. His vitriol was not directed at those who consider themselves Christians but at the beliefs and dogmatism of the faith. He had an utter love of humanity and vehemently despised all that, in his eyes, opposed it.

He was more that a mere journalist but a public intellectual. Hitch would engage and confound his audiences, not by telling them how stupid they’re are but by showing how stupid we all are, it’s a fine line. He was, and probably always will be one of my greatest heroes. So, trying to avoid the clichés and the mourning ritual he would have despised, I will say goodbye to a man I never met and will always admire.

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