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.

Valentines Day

You might have noticed or you might not have been all that bothered, but it was Valentines Day today. An important night of the year for the master Thongster, you might think. And you'd be wrong. You'd be wrong because you've not given it enough thought to realise that for a stripper, Valentines Day is like Christmas Day for Santa Claus. It's the one day of the year we can be sure to have rest.

For tonight was the night when the nation went thong crazy. Across the land, cries of pain will have been heard from the two dozen men that statistics tell us will be made permanently infertile after pulling off their thongs without having read the instructions carefully. At least two men, statistically speaking, will have severed their manhood in the heat of passion. And statistics will tell us that at least one goat will also be injured in the rush to woo the nation’s ladies. A thong is a dangerous tool in the wrong hands. As, I might add, is a goat but, for the sake of one of my Lib Dem friends, I don’t want to linger on a point that's so close to his hearts. Well, at least seven inches lower down, to be precise.

I, on the other hand, have not worn a thong all day. It’s only day of the year I can be sure to have off so I’ve been relaxing in an extremely large and baggy pair of Y fronts. To me that’s exotic when every man in the land is donning his thong, greasing himself liberal, and generally doing the pudding for his dearest and nearest.

Which leaves the night open for a man like me. I remained fully clothed and rested.

Gabby understands. She’s seen me naked so many times that I think it’s beginning to bore her. Do you know that last week, I accidentally walked naked through her meeting with the immigration officer dealing with her case? It was bad enough that neither of them blinked an eyelid but they actually asked me for my national insurance number. What does that do for a man’s sense of being a sexual being.

So, Valentines Day is something of a no show in the Chipster’s household.

And I can’t say I’m not glad. The whole thing makes me sick to the pit of my stomach.

What is it about a nation of supposedly free spirits that makes it act in unison? Did Shakespeare write his sonnets to be read only on his birthday? Where has the sense of spontaneity gone? Where is the desire to sing Sinatra in the supermarket? Dance the tango in Tesco? Do men not know how to woo? And is it true that you can only get a woo with Typhoo?

We should be told.

Before before you go off and demand to be told, think of those poor men tonight, wounded by too tight thongs ripped off too quickly.

And also spare a thought for the goat. Won't somebody spare a thought for the goat.