A potted history of female sex aids.
Dildos in one form or another have been in use by women for centuries. Although early versions were fashioned from wood or stone, phallus shaped vegetables soon became the popular choice for many women, especially in agricultural areas where a carrot or cucumber would always be within easy reach. Quite some years were to elapse before mechanisation came to alleviate the aching hands of womenfolk.
By the 18th century, weaving had become a major cottage industry in Scotland; housewives worked their looms while the menfolk went out grousing on the moors. But the raw wool had to be first turned into yarn on a spinning wheel. The mechanism consisted of a foot-operated treadle operating a crank connected to the turning wheel, and as it turned, produced the yarn ready for weaving.
It wasn't long before one frustrated Scottish lady with time on her hands thought of an ingenious adaption. Fashioning a dildo from an old bagpipe, she suspended it at seat height on the spinning wheel's frame and connected it to the crank mechanism. This gave the dildo a thrusting action each time the wheel was turned. The woman was now able to satisfy her desires by simply easing herself onto the dildo and working the treadle with her foot. For its female inventor, the device proved to be a far more pleasurable way of passing the time as she performed the mundane task of producing yarn.
News of the invention soon spread far and wide. Blacksmiths all over Scotland became inundated with requests to carry out the necessary modifications to the spinning wheels and it became a cottage industry in itself.
Quite unbeknown to the female inventor at the time, the mechanically operated dildo was to have a profound influence on the man responsible for the most important invention of the industrial age - the steam engine.
For her husband was none other than that famous Scottish engineer, James Watt. When he first realised the potential of steam as a power source, his problem was finding a way of harnessing that energy in an engine. Watt mulled over the problem for some considerable time without coming up with a workable solution.
Then one day, he came home unexpectedly and found his highly aroused wife pleasuring herself on her invention. Watching from the sidelines, he too became excited, and unable to wait a moment longer took hold of his wife – and pushed her out of the way for he'd just had a eureka moment. Watt had realised the solution to his problem was there right in front of him – in the reciprocating motion of the dildo's drive train!
Ignoring his complaining wife, Watt studied the working parts and soon realised he could replace the motion of the dildo and treadle with a steam powered piston moving backwards and forwards inside a metal cylinder. It would then be a simple matter to marry the piston up to a connecting rod, crank and flywheel. With the design now clear in his head, James Watt set to work building the world's first ever working steam engine.
His method of harnessing steam energy was adopted throughout industry and began the start of the industrial revolution. Engines big and small were soon being manufactured in their thousands to supply the need for power.
By the Victorian era, virtually the whole country was using steam power in one form or another. Hobbyists too, took to building their own miniature steam engines, either at home or in a workshop. Working models of railway engines, stationary engines and traction engines became a source of fascination for adults and children alike. It was also about this time that one or two enthusiasts had the idea for a more unusual use of steam power and took the first steps on a most delicate mission - to build the first steam powered dildo.
For the amateur engineer, this was uncharted territory with many technical problems to be solved. Calculating the boiler size, length of stroke and maximum operating pressure for a steam powered dildo required specialist knowledge of high pressure mechanical sex aids. Luckily, this somewhat ticklish subject came to the notice of a senior consulting engineer at the LMS who happened to be married to a very demanding woman in the bedroom department. He quickly set to work on the problem and in the October 1879 edition of the LMS Model Engineering magazine, published details and working drawings of the device in an eight page spread. To avoid offending Victorian sensibilities at the time, the contraption was referred to as ' A mechanical device of interest to those ladies regularly unattended by their husbands.'
Despite the engineer's hard work, his steam powered dildo did not prove to be a success. Reports came in of sulphurous smells and clouds of noxious gasses permeating the bedroom. Even with the offending husband sent out of the room, the smoke and steam from these engines proved to be a real problem in such a confined space. Furthermore, it took over an hour from cold to build up steam pressure - during which time the impatient lady would often resort to other means to relieve her frustration.
A boiler explosion in a suburb of Macclesfield in 1882, finally sealed the steam powered dildo's fate. As well as inflicting terrible injuries on the lady in question, considerable damage was also caused to the bedroom, the dildo being torn from its mounting and punching a hole through the roof before knocking a policeman off his bicycle three streets away.
But it was in the twentieth century that the sex toy revolution really began, and it wasn't long before the first electric powered dildo made its appearance. Heavy and cumbersome, its major weakness proved to be the fragile bakelite casing, which could break open if the lady arched her back too violently during use. This often resulted in the revolving gears flying out and injuring the user. Even worse, it was an absolute devil of a job for the husband to retrieve all those tiny little ball bearings lost under the bed.
But a frustrated woman is nothing if not resourceful, and it became common practice for users to encase the device with a series of elastic bands to hold it all in place. The soft feel of the rubber proved extremely popular and led to manufacturers producing the first ever dildos with a full rubber outer casing.
At the end of WW2, allied forces in Europe were being inundated with requests for aid of every kind to relieve its needy population. Due to the number of German men killed in the fighting, one of these requests was for a as quantity of dildos; enough to satisfy the needs of thousands of lonely German women. Lord Beaverbrook, in charge of allied war production, was tasked with finding the resources to produce them. He quickly turned a former Mosquito factory over to manufacturing high quality dildos. The workforce was more used to producing wooden laminates for twin-engined nightfighters, but soon adapted their skills to produce dildos in every shape and size.
Some workers at the factory, perhaps embittered by the war, couldn't resist chalking vulgar messages on them such as 'Up yours Helga'. Unfortunately, despite a rigorous inspection procedure, many dildos were dispatched to the German womenfolk with such slogans on them.
The 1950's saw production of the first multi-purpose vibrating dildo. A British invention, the blunt end of the instrument housed a miniature radio tuned in to the BBC Home service, and with the simple addition of an external battery and lead, two jack plugs, a six foot ariel, five yards of ariel lead, and set of army surplus headphones, a woman could achieve her climax while listening to the latest episode of the Archers. The product proved to be a winner, and as sales boomed, the 'twin pleasure' effect was felt throughout the country. Nowhere more so than in genteel Eastbourne, where widows and spinsters were reputed to pleasure themselves a daily basis to the familiar strains of, 'Da-da-da-da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da-da-da.'
Nowadays, female sex aids are produced in every shape and size. Rubber, plastic, latex and metal. Single ended, double ended and variable speed; the choice is infinite. But newer does not always mean better.
For not one of these modern electronic devices can recreate the thrill a female user would have experienced seventy years ago when, as the vibrator's valves warmed up, surging through those old headphones would come the sound of that much-loved theme tune, 'Da-da-da-da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da-da-da.'
But that's progress for you...
Bland Encounter II
“Okay Mr Bland, just squeeze as hard as you can. That's it. Yes, keep squeezing... keep squeezing... any reaction yet?"
"I don't know; maybe not yet."
"Keep up the pressure then... a bit harder. So, tell me what you're feeling now."
"Anger, I think. Yes, definitely anger.
"So, anger and frustration at what?"
"Anger and frustration that this rubber stress ball I'm squeezing the life out of is not a real passenger's neck!"
"Oh dear, I think I'd better stop you there Mr Bland. This is not working out quite how I expected it to. Maybe we need to reassess your treatment. This anger-management problem of yours is obviously more serious than I realised."
Dave was attending the BUPA clinic in Wensbury for psychiatric assessment. His manager, Eric Vines, had booked him in for an urgent appointment following a series of angry confrontations with train passengers during the previous week. The latest and most serious of these altercations had resulted in the passenger making an official complaint after Dave attacked the man with a train seat cushion.
When quizzed later about the incident, Dave conceded the passenger had been perfectly polite when asking the question that up led to his violent outburst. In any other circumstances he would have responded in an equally reasonable manner. His loss of self-control he could only put down to an accumulation of trying circumstances.
As he explained to the doctor, the destination board on the platform had clearly stated the train's destination as Birmingham Curzon Street – as did the display on the side of the train which Dave had observed his victim reading only seconds before. He also recalled two announcements being made to the same effect over the station's public address system. Even when his victim had asked, 'Is this the right train for Birmingham then?' he might still have been able to keep himself in check – had not three other passengers asked him the very same question just moments before!
He was apoplectic at being asked a fourth time. Wasn't it bleedin' obvious where the train was going? How many times did these people need to be told? What would convince them, he wondered – a legal document perhaps? Signed by a solicitor confirming Birmingham Curzon Street as the train's destination and shown to every passenger that boards the train?
It was unfortunate for Dave that his explosion of temper had been captured on the station's CCTV, otherwise he might have been able to escape direct blame for the violence that followed. Though he was fortunate in that the Police failed to respond to the emergency call at the time; there being only one British Transport Policeman on duty at Wensbury, and he’d already been tasked with the recovery of a quantity of stolen savouries after a break-in at the pasty shop on the station concourse. Dave might well have been confined to a police cell for the night otherwise.
When interviewed by the police some two days later, he was still at a loss to explain his behaviour, outright aggression was normally alien to his nature, though as a train manager, he'd met a good few people over the years he’d willingly make an exception for.
He could only put it down to some sort of mental aberration; one where his entirely predictable normal pattern of behaviour – so predictable in fact, his ex-wife had cited it as a reason in her divorce petition – was suspended sufficiently long enough for him to have a sudden explosion of temper.
Having worked hard to re-build his life, he'd now gone and put it all at risk by a stupid outburst of temper. Why could he not have held himself in check? He knew there would be severe repercussions if the case went to court. A guilty verdict would mean he'd certainly lose his job. He’d been a damned fool to let his frustration get the better of him.
After an hour of police questioning, Dave was feeling the heat; his discomfort made worse by having to repeat each answer over and over again. The pressure from the officer was deliberate. His suspect was like all the other villains he’d nicked over the years – evasive and shifty looking. The man was guilty alright, but with his victim refusing to give evidence, the difficult part would be proving it. What he needed was a way of forcing a confession from him. Do-gooders would no doubt complain, but rules had to be broken now and again in order to keep up the conviction rate and maintain the public’s confidence in the police.
But with Dave refusing to admit anything, the officer was forced to concede a prosecution would now be unlikely. Dave was surprised by the decision for why did his victim not want to pursue the matter? He could have easily claimed compensation for his injuries – such as they were. At the time, all he could recall seeing was a red carpet-burn type mark on the man's bald head, caused by the shiny worn-down fibres of the seat cushion Dave had used to pummel him with.
If he had been so minded, the constable could have enlightened him. Having had forty eight hours to reflect on events, Dave's victim had confided to the officer that he was perhaps partly to blame for the fracas; in effect agreeing with the argument Dave had put to him at the time, that having to answer the same blindingly obvious question over and over again was justification enough for hitting the most recent person to ask it.
With no sign of the concussion the paramedic who'd attended the incident had warned him to expect, he’d decided to settle for a formal apology.
Following his police interview, Dave was called to a meeting with his manager. Even though he'd been unexpectedly reprieved from prosecution, Dave knew there was a strong possibility that he could still be dismissed. A company that relied on the public's goodwill for its business wouldn't take kindly to having a member of their staff assault one of them.
Dave had begun making his apology as soon as he entered the office, but was quickly waved down by Eric, "Yes, yes, very contrite of you I'm sure." said his manager, impatient to get on with things. Then, feeling he should make the point at some stage during the interview, said, "You realise that you could be dismissed for what you did to that man?"
"Er, yes I know that..."
"Well, let's not dwell too much on the negative. The main thing is by you avoiding arrest and possibly a night spent in the police cells, no serious delay was caused to the train. I'm glad to say it keeps our depot's punctuality record nicely on target for the month."
"Er, well that's good then Eric."
"Of course, I'll have to issue you with a severe reprimand for the assault on this er, Mr Galbraith I believe his name was. Luckily for you he has no connection to anybody important so it's unlikely there'll be any pressure brought to bear by senior management, you'll be pleased to know."
Dave did indeed feel grateful – and relieved. But what did cause Eric a problem, he discovered, was the depot being landed with the bill for repairing the man's damaged glasses, Dave having made his own 'adjustments' to them during the incident; insisting they were clearly out of focus if the 'cretin' – to use Dave's expression at the time – couldn't read an illuminated destination board from only three feet away!
He was informed the repair bill would be deducted from his salary, together with an additional amount to cover the cost of removing blood and tufts of hair from the offending weapon: i.e. a train seat cushion, but there was a condition attached – he would have to undergo therapy. Dave scowled. He’d always scoffed at the idea of counselling as a way of treating mental health issues, believing the theory behind it to be no more than psycho-babble – he reckoned a decent bottle of KostKwik Rioja was far more effective, but knew he had to agree if he was to keep his job.
The doctor stroked his chin for a third time before sighing loudly.
"Hmmm... Look, I think maybe the best thing is for you to talk through this obvious rage you're feeling before we progress to some anger release therapies. So perhaps you could tell me exactly what type of situation makes you angry Mr Bland?"
Dave looked at his watch. He only had ninety seven minutes left out of a two hour session.
"You want me to list them all do you?"
"Er... well, how many are there?"
Too many to count, Dave could have said. If he was to start off with the most annoying: there were those people driving Nissan Micras who always had to wait at least five seconds after the traffic lights had changed before moving off. He imagined it took that long for the image to get transmitted through their unusually slow brains. Such slothfulness must govern all their actions, for he couldn't recall ever seeing one go faster than 45mph.
Then there are those women at supermarket check-outs who always seemed surprised that payment is expected once their items have been scanned, so spend several minutes rummaging through the bag they've just put all their shopping in trying to find their purse – why not get it out ready before packing the bloody bag? Then there's vouchers. Vouchers for guide dogs, vouchers for school computers, vouchers for guide dogs that use a school computer. Vouchers with a BOGOF, vouchers with money off, vouchers that piss off. Why must they have vouchers to hand in?
And that's not to forget the loyalty card, which always needs several passes through the reader before it registers. Either that or the hideously long number has to be input by hand because the woman has used it for every purchase she's made over the last ten years! Take some advice; send off for a new one! Better still, do what men do – never bother to carry one of the bloody things!
By now, the woman's been there that long I'm thinking she must be exercising her squatters rights, but the queue behind her is still not long enough because she employs her final delaying tactic – asking for cashback.
When at last she steps away from the till – raising the faint hope in me that I might, after all, get served on the same day I joined the queue – she unexpectedly turns back and coming over all coy, explains to the cashier how she forgot to hand in the car park voucher. My one and only item – which I've had to check has not gone past its sell-by date during the enforced wait – is now in the cashier’s hand and tantalisingly close to the scanner's beam. And if she were to move it just a tiny fraction closer, that deeply satisfying beep would allow me to complete the transaction and escape from here. But no, she doesn't because this infernal woman is still holding the assistant's attention. Yes, you madam! You were the one that turned away and that means you were finished; it’s an unwritten rule of supermarket queues. You can't just change your mind now; Yes, I know you're female, but the rule applies to everybody – just ask the other hundred people behind me!
This is agonising, the woman is completely oblivious to the seething resentment building up behind her, asking the assistant ever so sweetly, "It's not too late to redeem it now is it?"
I silently scream. ‘Yes, it fucking well is woman. It – really – fucking – well – is! Take a lease on the place if you want any more time, otherwise sod off back to your little Nissan Micra and dawdle at some ridiculously slow speed back to where you came from!’
But I say nothing for frustration has overloaded my brain and I have this irrational desire to beat myself about the head with the baguette I am holding – the baguette I hope has not gone off for I so longed to purchase it before I died. Or have I died and ended up in hypermarket hell? Such is my state of torment, I cannot tell anymore.
Suddenly, a distant voice breaks into my delirious state. It says to me,
"That'll be £2.79p"
"Sorry?" say I.
"It's £2.79p – for the baguette. Deliberately damaging it won't make it any cheaper you know. We get people like you in 'ere all the time – tryin' to get money knocked off. The management are wise to it now."
"Er, what? Sorry, I didn't intentionally mean to er... Just a moment, I think I may have some money in my back pocket."
Now coming around after my shopping induced state of torpor, I decide to add with a hint of sarcasm as I place the money in front of her, "I assume that this particular issue of £5 note has not been withdrawn by the Bank of England during my extended wait."
"I just wondered whether pounds sterling was still legal tender in this country – it's been quite some time since I last used the currency you know."
"Sorree?" asks the assistant, looking me up and down. I sense her initial incomprehension has now turned to wary suspicion. My banter may well have breached the company’s threshold for customer sarcasm since her hand moves to the bell, ready to alert the shop manager to the presence of a dissident shopper in their midst.
"Oh, it was nothing important,” say I, “Actually, I was looking for the check-out marked, ‘Disaffected customers making sarcastic remarks only,’ but couldn't find one.”
I sense from the withering look she gives me that her customer service skills are being tested to the limit.
"Just five items or less,” snaps the woman. Ignoring my outstretched hand, she clangs my assortment of change straight onto the counter. As I reach forward in an attempt to capture the rolling coins, she adds with a smirk, “Do you know you’ve got egg mayonnaise dripping from your hair?"
"So this has actually happened to you Mr Bland?"
"More times than I care to remember."
"Could it be that there is an underlying problem affecting your mental wellbeing at the moment?"
"Well, it could something that has happened to you recently; an event or a set of circumstances that has affected you and is causing you this stress – perhaps without you even knowing it. This could be something at work, or at home."
"At home you say – you know, I think you may well have hit the nail on the head there. It has to be my partner's mother, she's an absolute nightmare."
To his surprise, Dave left the clinic feeling somewhat relieved once he'd talked through the problems caused by the visit of Galina's mother – or Stalina to use her correct and entirely appropriate title. A tad more spring seemed to find its way into his step as walked back to the car prior to setting out on his journey back to Bridforth. It was only when he descended the hill into the town that he felt those familiar feelings of gloom once again.
As he turned into the road, he was careful to approach his driveway with the caution he'd learnt to adopt over the past few weeks.
Killing the engine, he coasted as silently as he could onto his driveway, applied the handbrake and eased himself out of the car. Shutting the car door with barely a click, he tiptoed up to the front door. He was about to remove the house keys from his pocket when the door was suddenly flung open – making him jump. The hulking figure of Stalina stood glowering at him in the doorway. Dave groaned. He was all too familiar with the procedure that would now follow.
Sure enough, she barked out her demand. But as she thrust out her hand towards him, he noticed her fingers were stained a curious red colour. It looked like blood. If it was, whose could it be? Maybe she'd filleted the postman when he called to ask for a signature? No, he'd just seen him on the main road.
It could be that pair of Jehovah Witnesses from the next street; they often visited the estate hoping to make a convert or two. That would be a more likely scenario – which made him wonder about the Almighty’s reaction to their sudden demise. Would all that door knocking done on his behalf entitle them a superior level of salvation?
There was one other consequence if his theory turned out to be correct; he would no longer have to cower behind the lounge curtains every other Saturday morning in a bid to avoid them.
Then he remembered. It was Thursday – Stalina's beetroot pickling day. Mystery solved.
She issued the order once again. Dave knew it was no good resisting. He'd learnt it was easier to comply with her demands rather than resist them, so removed the driving licence from his wallet and offered it up for inspection. She snatched it from him and studied it closely before giving him a long penetrating stare. Holding the card up to his head, she compared both sets of features. Apparently satisfied, Stalina muttered something unintelligible in Russian, handed back his ID and waved him on.
He kept his teeth gritted and stepped through the doorway. It was then he felt the strange tremor in his hand again; it was the same feeling he'd had when he attacked that passenger.
Thrusting the offending hand deep into his trouser pocket, Dave edged past the desk from which she issued her security directives every day. On impulse, he kicked out at the table leg and was gratified to see the plaque bearing her name and former military rank, topple onto the floor; a small victory perhaps, but a satisfying one nevertheless. He looked back to see if she was watching. Her unflinching gaze was one of the things about her he found the most unnerving. He realised it was probably an old psychological trick she'd learnt in the KGB; designed to make the victim of her constant scrutiny become paranoid. If so, it worked, and he had.
Everybody was a potential subversive in Stalina's eyes. And this meant all visitors – including him – had to be thoroughly vetted. Though he'd not as yet been made to undergo a strip search before being allowed entry to his house, Dave regarded it as only a matter of time before she attempted to heap that final humiliation upon him.
Dear Mr Wightman
I am writing to thank you for giving UKIP a mention in your recently published novel 'Bland Encounter.'
Frankly, it's because of people like you that we achieved such a magnificent result in the recent European elections, though of course we in the party are not all anti-European.
On a purely personal level, I am very fond of Belgian beer, Portuguese wines – though I do find their full-bodied Barroso hard to stomach, French cigarettes, and of course, German frauleins. I understand the Dutch produce extremely good quality pornography too.
Although your book was intended to be humorous, I thought you made a valid point regarding our homegrown girls being undercut by Poles, Lithuanians and the like muscling in on the act. Frankly, our sex trade workers should not take this lying down.
Our ladies of the night are being brought to their knees by these foreign interlopers. Allowing them to go down in this way is a national disgrace. It's vital we get behind these girls and offer a hand to help achieve a satisfactory outcome.
Funnily enough, the solution came to me the other night as I lay dozing in bed. Instead of just one girl for every client, wouldn't two be better – say one of each nationality – maybe one blond and one brunette – on each side of the bed? Apart from the not knowing which way to turn, such an arrangement would ensure the 'work' is shared equally between British and foreign girls – No, absolutely not a fantasy, just a neat solution to the problem as I see it. Though I have to say, my wife did give me a peculiar look when I suggested how having a threesome would help reduce unemployment and benefit claimants.
Finally Donald, thank you once again for the publicity and I hope you'll be able to give the party a mention in your next book, which I understand you have recently begun writing – there’ll be a pint or two in it for you!
C/O Fox Inn
Dear Mr Wightman
Any news yet on a follow-up? After digesting your first novel it in a matter of days, I'm hungry for more of the same. There's nothing I like better than getting my teeth into a good meaty novel; in fact I could easily devour a trilogy.
The Old Library
I really must protest at the portrayal of my character in your book Bland Encounter. You have made me out to be some sort of domineering, overbearing, sexually-repressed harridan.
How dare you label me sexually-repressed? Furthermore, I'll thank you to keep such uninformed opinions to yourself. It is certainly no business of yours what I am - nor my husband's for that matter. Ronald is tiresome enough as it is without the dreaded s word being bandied about. Even as I speak he's busily tittering away to himself away after once again picking up your book to read; but then he always did have a predilection for prurient, lavatorial humour. I blame those magazines he keeps secreted in the potting shed as the cause of his degeneration.
But to return to the point of the missive, I really would have expected you to recognise my efforts as a stalwart upholder of the country’s moral standards; one of the few still trying to turn the tide against the anything goes, shirt out and trousers down the backside hanging, sofa slouching, dorito chomping, plasma TV channel flicking, takeaway consuming, bull terrier towing, multi-tattooed and perforated, manner-less society in which we now live.
Your book would have been far better received by myself and the other WI ladies - who all obviously agree with me - if you had recognised this fact.
I expect a full apology by return of post and a retraction of the two offending words in your next edition - should there be one of course.
Yours most vehemently
Marjorie Dawkins (no relation I might add, to that unholy atheist professor, Richard Dawkins.)
Well kept Avenue
Dear Mr Wightman
I bought your book Bland Encounter the other day and I'm really pleased with the choice I made. Its 320 pages are just the right thickness to fit under the wonky leg of our dining room table. I hope
Sorry readers, this letter was cut due to reasons of space.
After spending much time fiddling about with the dreaded computer, tapping this, clicking on that, (mostly the wrong that!) I eventually managed to order your book which I received in the post only last week.
Having now read it from cover to cover, I was surprised to find the book centered on the nefarious exploits of a Mr Bean like character undergoing a succession of train journeys which culminated in a orgiastic crescendo with a bevy of vice girls.
Not that I found the contrivances of the plot unamusing you understand; quite the contrary in fact. But I could not find one single mention of its supposed title, Blandings Castle, anywhere. And why change your name to Donald Wightman? Seems a damn silly idea to me. P G Wodehouse was, and is, a perfectly acceptable name for an author.
To avoid these discounted misprints in the future, I shall revert back to using Ms Helga Feldstrop, the very able proprietress of Burlesque Books at the back of the High St. She has attended to all my needs in the past, and being aware of my preferences, always tries her utmost to accommodate them.
As I shall now not be buying another book via the 'internet', I wish you every success as an author in your new guise.
Lt. Col. Sir Hubert Grapeshot (retired)
The Old Buffer
Mountains of Moaning
Dear Mr Wightman
I ordered your book in the expectation that it would remain faithful to the film of the same name. I cannot adequately describe my shock on removing the packaging and seeing the front cover. The scene depicted was totally unsuitable for ladies of a certain class and refinement; Celia Johnson would have been appalled by its overtly sexual overtones. As to the content itself, even the worldly Trevor Howard would have baulked at participating in some of the disgusting acts portrayed in the book (which I only read in order to satisfy myself that the book was as depraved as I imagined.)
Can not a great British cinema classic telling the story of two virtuous and decent people actively plotting adultery, be left untarnished by gratuitous sex being introduced into the story?
I have now passed your 'novel' onto our local charity shop. I gather this sort of 'literature' is eagerly devoured by people of a certain tendency.
Miss A Wright-Proode
22 Loveless Lane
Withering on the Vine
I polished off the very same book only two days ago. Funny coincidence or what?
The Old Library
Much More Depleted
Dear Mr. Wightman,
I've been told by my personal book reader that your novel describing the life of a train manager on the railway network is very amusing; I must get around to reading it myself sometime.
Speaking as a conservative (with a small C you'll notice), I feel we can be justly proud of our modern railway network. You may not realise it, but the chaotic situations you describe in your book are only possible because of the privatisation of the industry carried out by a previous Conservative government. This has also reduced unemployment through the necessary recruitment of thousands of administrators to oversee it all.
By giving the green light to a new high speed line through the Chilterns and other non-marginal conservative held constituencies, we will also be fulfilling another government pledge: that is to make housing more affordable for young couples. Property values of houses along the route have plummeted since the announcement, so I'm pleased to say we're well on our way to achieving that goal.
Good luck with your book Donald: another great achievement for UK plc.
Robin U. Hall K.F.C. (PPS to PM D.C.)
Dear Mr Wightman
It has come to my notice that in your book Bland Encounter, you appear to ridicule the methods and practices of the South Mercia Transport Police; making us out to be incompetent buffoons who spend the whole time filling our faces in the police canteen. Let me say that this is certainly not the case; we frequent a wide range of other eateries too. Maintaining law and order in the food courts of our mainline stations forms an important part of our police duties. Even so, it is surprising how many Cornish pasties and other delicious savouries go unaccounted for during these close surveillance operations.
But police work is not just about satisfying a healthy appetite, a whole host of administrative duties have to be carried out too. Expense claim forms, overtime sheets, holiday leave applications, sickness rosters – all this takes up many hours of police time. With very limited resources at our disposal, (only 2 new biros, per constable, per year) our officers often struggle to cope with the workload.
Of course, the public – quite rightly in my opinion – expect us to investigate actual crimes. And herein lies the problem. Once a police officer's shift is broken down into its essential components, i.e. booking on, checking emails and bids on eBay, tea breaks, meal breaks, visits to lavatory after said tea and meal breaks, taking the new Beamer chase car out for a road test and then booking off, little time is left for crime investigations.
It is not surprising that with such constraints, a little tardiness can occasionally creep into our procedures. But West Mercia Transport Police is nothing if not innovative, so to address the problem we have extended the working hours of our office cleaner.
Mrs Namunga will now answer all calls coming in to Police HQ outside of normal working hours and prioritise them, and, providing an officer can be released from other important duties at Greggs, KFC etc, the most urgent will be considered for prompt investigation at some point in the future.
I hope the measures I have outlined above will satisfy the criticisms implicit in your book.
Chief Superintendent Nick Crook
South Mercia Transport Police HQ
Ronnie Biggs Court
I was very interested to read your tale of a chimpanzee driving a steam train. This story is not as far-fetched as you might imagine. Apes do have an uncanny ability to… er, ape the actions of other animals – including humans.
I recall one incident a few years ago in Rwanda when the vehicle I was travelling in suffered a puncture. Unfortunately, the jack had broken so I and the other members of the camera crew were reduced to trying to lift our Land Rover manually. This was proving impossible, but just then a large silverback gorilla appeared on the scene. Seeing us struggling, he very quickly lifted up the side of the vehicle and even snatched the wheel brace from our driver when the nuts proved too difficult for him to undo.
We could only watch in amazement as the gorilla carried out the whole operation. He even lifted the bonnet to check the oil before allowing us on our way. A couple of bananas hardly seemed an ample reward for all his efforts, but unfortunately, that was the only fruit we had in our BBC packed lunches. Our filet mignon and lobster baguettes would certainly not have suited a gorilla's palette, nor the '58 Petrus to wash it down with – the BBC being very parsimonious in those says.
Today, jungle filming has moved on; it now requires the services of a two Michelin starred chefs on permanent standby, together with an extensive portable wine cellar carried in the baggage train.
But happy days when all said and done.
Dear Mr Wightman
I bought your book Bland Encounter the other day and I'm really pleased with the choice I made. Its 320 pages are just the right thickness to fit under the wonky leg of our dining room table. I hope
Sorry readers, this letter was cut due to reasons of space.
New to this website: an in depth examination of subjects of interest to my readers.
First exposé - The history of dogging (part 1)
Many people believe that dogging is a relatively new phenomenon; however, it seems that is not the case. Having researched the subject, I can reveal that the practice in Britain goes back to at least Roman times.
It was in the Cannock Chase area of the Midlands (Cornovii) around 22AD, when a noted scribe, Ludicrous Theorem, began following up rumours he'd heard about a former sportsman - Stanleus Colleymorum - loitering in the local woods for nefarious purposes. One evening while ion his trail, he came upon Maximus Mosleum, a person of much self-importance being given a severe mastigatus by wenches of dubious repute. While seeming to enjoy the pain being inflicted on him, Maximus's cries (affected with a Germanic accent for some reason) of 'Cane is gut' were wrongly interpreted by Ludicrous as 'Canis' - Latin for dog - 'is good.'
Ludicrous mistakenly assumed that whatever practice Maximus was engaged in, it involved dogs - bestiality being a common practice at the time (much to the distress of the local wildlife and the main reason why urban foxes were a rare sight in those days.)
Luckily for historians of social history, Ludicrous made copious notes at the time of what he witnessed. As a consequence, dogging - as he now called it, was one of the first sexual acts ever to be recorded in a manuscript. He went on to document many more as he wandered through the woodlands of Roman Britain, giving a name to each sexual act he discovered. The body of work eventually became the world's very first Profanosaurus. Luckily, the ancient manuscript has survived the centuries and is now carefully preserved in the British Museum.
Next installment: Dogging in the middle ages.
Dogging (part 2)
The Romans left Britain around 400 AD, leaving the indigenous Britons to continue the sexual practices learnt from their deviant masters. Although Roman style group orgies died out as the large villas built for the purpose fell into disrepair - along with the unique central heating system invented by the Romans to heat their homes - briefer, more furtive acts of coupling rose in popularity, and in particularly dogging.
By the middle ages, a song had even been written about the activity. Most people think 'Greensleeves' refers to a man of that name. In fact, the title relates to the green stained sleeves of a woman's dress after having vigorous 'doggie' style sex in amongst the woodland grass. A more accurate title would have been Green sleeves and knees, but was probably considered too risqué at the time.
By the 17th century dogging had spread to the big cities, with London being a real hotbed of sexual activity; the people no doubt encouraged in their fornicating by the equally bawdy antics of their monarch, Charles II.
A little known fact about those times concerns the great fire of London which began in a Pudding Lane baker's shop. The baker in question was well known for producing extremely life-like gingerbread women, being both anatomically correct and generously proportioned. They were much in demand from well-to-do gentlemen for the purposes of their own personal enjoyment. It could be said the gingerbread woman was the forerunner of the blow-up doll - though with one big advantage. If left feeling a little peckish after the act, a piece of the gingerbread would make a satisfying snack. There was also no risk of catching an infection from one of these freshly baked creations; an important consideration - syphilis being rife amongst the prostitutes of old London town.
The baker was not averse to enjoying such benefits himself if a particularly attractive one rose from out of the oven. As was the case on the morning in question, when, so engaged was he in satisfying his lustful desires, the baker failed to notice embers from the hot oven had set light to the shop, and within minutes, the whole street was in flames
Although large swathes of London were eventually destroyed by the great fire, to the great relief of his gentlemen customers, the baker managed to save his last batch of gingerbread women from the stricken shop - but left bystanders pondering the reason for him doing so whilst naked from the waist down, and more curiously, why his nether regions were covered in icing sugar!
Dogging (final part)
Few historians realise that our most famous playwright William Shakespeare, had a fascination with dogging; he made a reference to it in one of his plays. Students of the Bard will surely not forget that immortal line from Macbeth: 'Is this a dogger which I see before me.'
The endorsement from such a noted figure saw dogging sites rapidly increase their visitor numbers in the early part of the 17th century; there being little else to do at the time in the way of public recreation apart from burning witches at the stake, but these public executions lacked the all-important audience participation element so beloved of peasants at the time..
With dogging continuing to rise in popularity, an enterprising businessman at the time saw an opportunity to make some money and with uncanny foresight produced a consumer rights pamphlet entitled, 'The whiche guide to dogging,' pricing it at a very reasonable two groats. Unfortunately, the authorities misunderstood the meaning of the title and arrested him. Despite his protests at their lack of literacy, he was subsequently burnt at the stake for his trouble.
In such debauched times it was hardly surprising that cases of the pox rose dramatically. So much so that by the eighteenth century there was hardly a household in the land that hadn't been afflicted by some awful DVD - that is a Dogging related Veneral Disease, not a badly copied Carry On film
When the highly erotic novel 'Fanny Hill' was published in the mid 18th century, it quickly became the Fifty Shades of Grey of its day. The story of her erotic sexual encounters caused the many illiterate doggers much frustration as they were unable to read any of the lurid details.
The coming of the railways in the 1800s saw doggers venturing further afield to seek their pleasures. By the late Victorian era it was possible to take the 10.00am LMS express from London Euston, and be in Scotland by 6.00pm. Adventurous doggers, casting aside their corsets, cravats and Victorian values, could be enjoying assignations with unintelligible Glaswegians in some remote Scottish glen the very same evening.
Although the railway helped to spread dogging through the land, it was the motorcar that really broadened its appeal. As early as the 1930s, doggers would venture out on a Sunday afternoon in their Morris Eights loaded up with sandwiches and a filled thermos of tea. Armed with a thick woolen car rug and a portable gramophone, these newly-mobile doggers would have all the essentials needed for an evening's entertainment in the local woods.
The sites could be easily identified from the honeyed aroma of ready-rubbed tobacco gently rising up from the undergrowth - it being the etiquette in those days for the gentleman to continue smoking his pipe throughout the act of fornication, (though tapping it out on lady’s exposed rear was frowned upon.)
With formality and politeness being paramount, a gentleman queuing up to service a willing lady would likely say to his chum, 'After you Wilkins.' If the man responded with a, 'No, after you Smithson,' further rejoinders of 'But I insist!' would be exchanged until one or the other acquiesced.
Alas, such cultured doggers appear to be thin on the (damp) ground nowadays. For many it is purely an act of self-gratification to be completed as quickly possible. Few men now even bother to open up the Telegraph on the lady's back and attempt the crossword while engaged in sexual congress with her.
Unfortunately, the more sensationalist elements of the press have also sought to bring the activity into disrepute. The British Caravanning Club no longer publishes details of the most popular dogging sites, while The Amateur Allotment Holder refuses to even carry advertisements for the in-house magazine, ‘Doggers Delight.’
But for those enthusiasts who refuse to be dissuaded from enjoying this great British pastime, remember: Keep calm and carry on Dogging!
Being a straight talking kinda guy I want to be up-front with you about an important project I and a colleague have been working on.
We are compiling an important dossier on the effects of train delays on the railway network (its rather dramatic working title being, Railways: the new weapons of mass disruption.) Our particular area of interest is examining the possibility of whether commuter trains are able to reach London within 45 minutes.
As we are always looking out for well-composed works of fiction to use in the dossier, rather then meaningless facts, my son thought to bring your book to my attention. I must confess it is not a book I would personally choose - my tastes are now rather more catholic - but you do provide some useful insights into the railway industry.
We will of course be willing to pay a fee for the inclusion of your material... at some point in the future... after our lawyers have scrutinized all the details, that is.
I wait with interest, your decision in this matter.
Yours most sincerely
WC1, WC2, SW1, also BS2 & BS3
I started reading your book Bland Encounter at work this morning and was literally blown away!
Powerfans Ltd – ‘We’ll give you wind!’
Wind Tunnel Industries
Dear Mr Wightman
I started reading your book this morning and literally couldn’t put it down!
Capt. James T. Kirsch
(On board The Mars Explorer)
via radio link with,
I started reading your book Bland Encounter during my lunch break and found myself literally glued to it!
The Glue Research Centre – ‘We’re never stuck for a solution!’
Ernie Blowfield 'ere. I've read yur boook Bland Encounter and I'm not a 'appy man. Per'aps yer thought I 'ad a sense o' humour and it 'ud give me a laugh like. But I'm not laughin'. Neither are my boys. They're all fer payin' you a visit t'sort out one or two misunderstandings you seem to 'ave about the Postlethwaite Rail n' Tramway Society.
Y'see, the lads - quite understandably in my opinion - get a bit upset when they 'ear about some poncey git from Shropshire tekkin' liberties with our reputation.
But then Yorkshire folk are well known fer their obligin' nature and it's right we should 'elp people see the error of their ways by giving 'em a bit o' friendly advice - if yer get me drift.
So now yer've got the message, I don't expect to 'ear that yer writin' anythin' else about our railway - Right?
We know where yer live.
Just a small point, but a very large one for us pedants.
With reference to your book Bland Encounter, not all trainspotter mums use tupperware containers, many still prefer the traditional tin containers with raised lettering to keep their son's luncheon meat sandwiches fresh.
One other point I should make; occasionally processed Kraft cheese slices can be substituted instead. Hard boiled eggs are also very much enjoyed by trainspotters as their smell is very similar to the sulphurous smoke emitted by a steam engine. The pungent aroma can also disguise an otherwise embarassing SBD fart.
I hope this clarifies a few of the finer details concerning the eating habits of trainspotters.
2c The Engine
Taykin on Water
Have you had an accident claiming back your PPI in the last six months? Here at Naim, Blaim & Claim, we specialise in claims for injuries suffered as a result of a client’s eagerness to fill in their PPI claim form. So if you have incurred any of the following accidental injuries:
- Puncture injuries from a biro
- Stab wounds from a fountain pen
- Repetitive strain injury after filling out the claim form
- Tippex poisoning
- Lacerations to the tongue after licking an envelope
- Ruined clothes from a leaking Poundland Biro
(Calls charged at the same local rate as ‘Girls just waiting to meet you.’)
We await your call.
Sorry readers, this spam mail should have been deleted.
For those readers who are new to the practices described in Fifty Shades of Grey - and we know who you are - a contributor has written in with some helpful advice.
After receiving several enthusiastically administered thrashings from my lady wife over the past few weeks, (she does get a little too carried away in her dominatrix role, I put it down to her being a village librarian with too much time on her hands and too much erotica on the shelves,) I was finding the ugly red weals raised on my buttocks a tad painful. After giving the problem some thought, it was your very amusing tome Bland Encounter that provided the answer. Remembering an old schoolboy trick, I opened up the book and pushed it down the back of my gimp suit, whereupon the cushioning effect of your book provided just the right level of painful enjoyment; it being far superior to the London telephone directory I'd previously tried.
My buttocks now merely sting after each application of her seasoned Norwegian birchwood cane. In addition, my wife can read a page or two of your excellent novel from the imprint left behind on my buttocks while rubbing in some soothing après-thrash ointment.
Hey ho! Satisfaction all round!
For sale. Ex. USAF Predator Drone. Missile system deactivated. Equipped with all weather 100 x magnification remote control camera. Ex CIA surveillance aircraft. Able to see into bedroom windows from 10,000 ft. Suit keen voyeur/peeping tom.
For sale. Trainspotter bobble hats. Made from indestructible Yak underbelly hair and finished in traditional non-matching colours. Clashes with everything! Never needs washing! Retains grease and dirt for years!
For Sale. Ford Focus, low mileage, only used for trips to local woods. Extras include handcuff mounting points, leg stirrups and easy-wipe seats. Suit keen dogger. Priced to sell or exchange for Ex. USAF Predator Drone.
Wanted. Ex Radio 1 Disc Jockey seeks alibis for various dates during 1977, 78, 80, and 82. Generous package for suitable ‘fixer.’
Are you a Lib-Dem politician? Do you have lustful desires for your female members of staff? If the answer is yes, cure your severe Lib Dem abnormality immediately with Kockalmer. Made of surgical grade Velcro, the patented device fits discreetly down the front of the trousers and when filled with liquid nitrogen, suppresses those licentious desires for hours. Only £9.99 from all good hardware stores.
Dear Mr Wightman
I've recently noticed in your column Mr Penny Black's claim that stamp collecting was the hobby least likely to attract a woman's interest.
As a former tiddlywink champion, I can say with absolute certainty that he is wrong. Winking my tiddly I've found to be an extremely solitary pastime and is for some reason, a complete turn-off for the female of the species. I've given up asking ladies I'm acquainted with the perfectly reasonable question, 'Would you like to play with me?' as I invariably get a look of disgust and a slap across the face for my trouble.
Despite the fact that Russell Brand recently beat Justin Bieber in the East Anglia regional finals held in Lowestoft this year, Tiddlywinks is seen as an 'uncool' activity amongst the younger generation. They obviously fail to see the benefits to be gained from flicking worthless bits of plastic about for hours on end.
I can only assume they're so reliant on sex, drinking and playing loud music to keep them amused, they haven't the time or inclination to play simple bored games.
Who'd want to be 18 again eh?
Dear Mr Wightman
While reading your very amusing history of dogging, I was reminded of an incident I had many years ago during the war.
One day while out scouting for the enemy, I was involved in a skirmish with a Heinkel. Unfortunately my Spit' took a cannon hit in the engine and I was forced to bail out. Luckily, I managed descend safely into the Kentish countryside.
As I lay on the ground having had the wind knocked out of me, what I took to be two land girls came running over to my side. They gave me cigarettes, one of them produced a hip flask and I had a nip of that too.
The very next thing I was being felt all over my body; they said it was to see if I was injured or not. Well, I wasn't going to refuse their ministrations was I?
Now, I don't know whether it was the glamour of the uniform, or the fact that only a few seconds earlier I had been dicing with death, but after repeatedly saying how hot it was in the sun, they started removing their clothes – before long I was the one getting hot under the collar!
I'm too much of a gentleman to reveal what happened next, but all three of us in that little glade managed to hide from the search party that had been sent to find me for a good two hours! And what an eventful two hours they were! Afterwards, knowing the idyll wouldn't last forever, I made myself decent and went reluctantly back to base.
I flew over that same part of Kent many mores times during the summer of '40 but I'm damned if I could get shot down again. Just sod's law I suppose.
I often wonder about those two beauties and the things they did to me - and how they came to be such convincing transvestites.
Yes, a never to be forgotten experience indeed.
Sqn Ldr Harry Kane KFC (Rtd)
The Old Brownings
I would like to take issue with the assertion in your novel Bland Encounter that trainspotting and Morris dancing are the two activities least likely to attract a woman's interest.
I have the honour of being General Secretary of the British Association of Philatelists (BAPs) and possess an extensive collection of stamps which I enjoy studying at every opportunity. But whenever I am in female company and I politely ask the lady in question if I may be allowed to get them out, I invariably receive a look of disgust from the lady, quickly followed by her storming off, never to be seen again. Even when I reveal my rare un-franked limited editions, the lady’s reaction is the same.
It is for this reason I declare stamp collecting to be the worthy recipient of the above accolade.
Reginald Penny Black
The Old Sorting Office
Posting on the Wane