Geoff Capes's Thighs

It was her large thighs. I couldn’t bear to look at them a moment longer. I had to quit.

For five days I’ve been watching these thighs walk the aisles in the air conditioned telesales office, just outside Bangor. They belonged to my supervisor Doris (I have to call her Doris because she’d probably sue me if I used her real name), who was a hulk of professionalism in navy polyester, cheap Bodyshop perfume, and heavily into good Karmic vibrations. She generated so much static electricity in her skin tight skirt that she crackled as she walked. You could go into cardiac arrest just by touching earthed metal whenever she was in the room. And then there was that voice…

‘Chip? Remember to smile, dear! Nobody loves a sulker!’

‘Chip, hit your quota and you go in the draw to win the dreamcatcher!’

‘Chip! If you’re feeling tired, go to the water cooler and touch the blue crystals!’

If I’m honest, I’ve been too busy obsessed about her thighs to smile or feel happy or tired. They have filled my dreams with images of Geoff Capes, circa 1978, in Britain’s Strongest Man. I swear she could carry a hod full of bricks up a ladder and still have the energy to tell me off. The way she rubbed her legs whenever she criticised the way I’d handled my customers was no idle threat. I was too afraid to make jokes about cracking walnuts.

In the end, I had no choice. This morning I only made it to ten o'clock before I decided to hand in my resignation. I chose to do so by throwing my headset through the window and declaring that ‘I’d rather be broke and happy than in this dump with your thighs’. It was a Freudian slip. I’d meant to say ‘guys’. I stormed out before Doris could catch me.

Telesales has been an experience I probably needed to endure for however short length of time I could manage, but I wasn’t going to last another minute of listening to customers wanting to talk dirty about bank charges. There are more perverts in the world than I’d ever imagined and an unhealthy number of them seemed to have Yorkshire accents. It was, as they say, an education.

I don’t know if I’ll get paid but I know I have psychological scars that time will struggle to heal. But for now, The Chipster is back. I’m looking for work but, in the meantime, I’m getting back to my writing. The only good thing to come out of these bad few days is I’ve finally come up with an excellent title for my next novel.

And you might be surprised to know that it has nothing to do with thighs.

Thoggers And Thongers

I’m just one large blogging genital tonight, so I have to ask you to forgive me. It’s late, I’m typing this in the nude, and I just don’t see why I should go and slip on a thong after office hours. And if you’re in any way ashamed of my body, then look away now. I’m about to untangle myself and you might not think it a pretty sight.

There, that’s better… Now you can look again.

Not that I don’t find this a little off putting myself. I’m lying in bed with the laptop balanced on a pillow (I’ve seen the damage that can be done so I’m not risking PC / loin contact). The TV sits at the foot of the bed and is tuned to BBC News 24 from where Baroness Amos is currently gazing up between my thighs. I imagine this is what it will be like when the government introduce cavity searches but I can’t say I care for it all that much. It doesn’t matter how many I’ve got naked in front of a crowd, I don’t think I could ever get use to Baroness Amos peering up between my naked thighs. At the very least it takes my mind of what I’m doing and at the worst I’m sure it’s unconstitutional. Besides, I’ve seen the damage that can be done so I’m not risking Amos / loin contact either.

Anyway, the reason I’m working so late is that I’ve been nominated for a Thogger.

You might want to read that again.

When I got the call, I mistakenly thought it was a ‘Thonger’, which, as you probably know, is the highest accolade in world stripping. No UK stripper has yet won a Thonger, let along a chap from Wales. I thought my life was about to change for the better and I’d become the world ambassador to the world’s exhibitionists, gyrators, lap dancers, and thonglateers. You can imagine my disappointment when Gabby pointed out that it said Thogger, not Thonger.

That’s the problem with these Romanians. They’re so perceptive.

After I’d finished crying, I reread the citation and discovered that Trixy considers that I’m a blogger who makes her think. Think about what, you probably wonder? Well I think it’s probably not a good idea to ask. I try my best, of course, but I never seem to become anything more than a man in thong. I sometimes wonder if an education will come to nothing unless I mention my private parts every hundred words. If I gave you a choice between lots of observations about my wang or something insightful about Auden, I suspect the wang would win every time. Which is typical of the British mentality. I’m also sure Auden wrote a poem about it as he had a similar problem.

So, what does this Thogger award mean? It means that I get to nominate five lucky people to whom I send this mixed blessing. Earlier this evening, I put all the candidates into a hat – or actually an old pair of Y fronts with an abnormally large crotch – and these are the winners that came out smelling slightly of oil and unction.

1. Blockhead Magazine
2. Rilly Super
3. Mutterings and Meanderings
4. Arthur Clewley
5. Mr. Joe Blogs
5b. Baroque in Hackney

Congratulations, to all five of you. You really do make me think. And hard luck to the other nominees who also make me think but who didn't have the rub of the Y fronts this time. Your turn will surely come as the electoral Y fronts are remarkably roomy and fair in its selections.