Mirth and Woe: Scud
Somebody has taken to dumping rubbish in the alleyway that runs behind our street. It started off innocently enough - the odd bag of household waste, and a few cuttings from the back garden.
Soon enough, came a clapped-out old microwave oven, followed by a kitchen table and a chair with three legs.
Then, not terribly long ago: bingo!
Whilst I waited for Lucy Minogue to finish sniffing whatever it is dogs sniff on their walkies, my eyes fell upon some likely looking swag. There, not hidden terribly well in a rather overgrown hedge was a bag. A bag that had my scud radar pinging off the meter.
And Lordy, if I didn't turn out to be right, for there, hardly tainted at all by dogs' business was a loosely-tied plastic bag filled with assorted scud magazines. Of course, with hardly a thought towards the welfare of poor, lovely Lucy Minogue, they were snaffled away to my shed for further inspection.
Regular readers may remember my oft-repeated tale of a trip to the rubbish tip that netted me the dubious delights of a DVD entitled "Grannys Cumming 2", hardly the British film industry's finest hour, but a title which involved the less-than-sticky climax of some fat old dear bouncing up and down on top of some poor bloke's wang, whilst he undoubtedly had his thoughts anywhere other than the job in hand.
Not that I watched it. Much. At all.
So, it was with some dread that I peeled open the rain-soaked bag to inspect the true horror of my find.
At this point you'd expect me to recoil in horror at the dubious and incredibly specialist nature of my find, with the bag containing a ten-inch thick pile of magazines detailing such perversions as corporal punishment, BDSM, leather, golden showers and any which kind of filth to which Barking Mad Sharon introduced my good self when I was undergoing my manky old spunker training. A bag which I might well have entitled "Pervert's Delight", and might have made me a small fortune on the open market.
And you'd be wrong.
It was ladyboys.
On the surface, not unattractive young ladies with a penchant for removing their clothes. Underneath, and a couple of pages in: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!
"Oh my flippin' Christ," I said to myself, completely forgetting the proximity of my shed to the street where several people were probably standing at the bus stop, "She's got a wang."
Then: "No. Hang on. He's got tits."
If I had been nursing even the remotest of semis to start with, it was now the size and shape of the nozzle on an airbed.
Fair play to the editors of these murky publications - they had at least tried to pad out their magazines with a number of not-made-up-at-all dirty letters, all of which followed a general theme of sexual awakening of a holiday to the Far East, culminating with graphic descriptions in which the protagonists clearly have the time of their lives, despite not knowing whether they're coming or going.
And at the bottom of the bag, one copy of the previous month's Razzle, just to prove there are still people out there who don't know how to download pornography from the internet.
At a complete loss, I tied the bag up and left it in the exact spot in the alleyway I found it. Sick pron in a hedge, as it were.
The next morning, concerned of the welfare of my abandoned filth, I took Lucy Minogue for a suspiciously early walkie to find that it had gone and thank fuckery for that.
In another corner of Weymouth (twinned with Gomorrah) the faintest echo of a scream could be heard.
"Mwaaargh! She's got a wang! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!"