"Buttock clenching" and other curious admissions

[Organ Morgan.]

Visited Sludge's dump this morning. I could smell super-strength skunk before he opened the front door. His languid eyes and slurred speech came as no surprise. I noticed immediately that a portrait hanging above the mantelpiece of Bill Shankly shaking hands with Kenny Dalglish had been replaced with one of a grinning Jurgen Klopp. I made no comment for I feared he'd pay another tedious homage to the Saxony-born knockwurst sausage scoffer, and that's a fate worse than hearing unfunny variations of his dire Norman the carpet joke.

In spite of my protestations he insisted on furnishing me the squalid details of his recent sexual liaisons. One involved a jaunt to an Aberkenfig house of ill repute where he parted with £20 to be flogged with a bullwhip. His usual dominatrix was unavailable. A Lithuanian lady with little understanding of English stepped in. "There I was," he said, "bollock naked on all-fours secured to the bed while wearing a gimp mask and unable to make myself heard. She must have thought my groans were those of pleasure rather than agony for she kept taking longer and longer run ups to whack me harder." He described the traumatic experience as "buttock clenching."

The conversation drifted to football away days of yore when aggro was in vogue. Not that he was to be seen when the fur flew. "Did you ever, just once, stand with your mates?" I asked. "No, never," said the rotter, "I always turned and ran like feck."

One infamous occasion was when Exeter's firm the Anti-Welsh League bravely charged the all-conquering Soul Crew along their city's High Street. Sludge was near the front when the Devon thugs came into view a safe distance away. Believing they wouldn't attack, he limbered up with some shadow boxing and casual stretching exercises. Then the assembled foe begun to chant as they readied themselves for battle. "Ooo-arr, ooo-arr, ooo-arr" they repeated over and over and more audibly until their blood-curdling cries reached a crescendo. Sludge gulped loudly as though he'd swallowed a gobstopper. "I almost shat myself," he confessed.

He legged it to the refuge of a Mothercare outlet faster than Linford Christie in his prime could have. As his outnumbered former comrades heroically repelled a sustained onslaught just yards away he glided from aisle to aisle inside the store feigning interest in prams and pushchairs while making crude observations about the swollen bellies and knockers of expectant mothers he lured into conversations with.

[The Bob Banker Spanker]

[SLUDGE FACTORY]

Visited Sludge's dump this morning. I could smell super-strength skunk before he opened the front door. His languid eyes and slurred speech came as no surprise. I noticed immediately that a portrait hanging above the mantelpiece of Bill Shankly shaking hands with Kenny Dalglish had been replaced with one of a grinning Jurgen Klopp. I made no comment for I feared he'd pay another tedious homage to the Saxony-born knockwurst sausage scoffer, and that's a fate worse than hearing unfunny variations of his dire Norman the carpet joke.

In spite of my protestations he insisted on furnishing me the squalid details of his recent sexual liaisons. One involved a jaunt to an Aberkenfig house of ill repute where he parted with £20 to be flogged with a bullwhip. His usual dominatrix was unavailable. A Lithuanian lady with little understanding of English stepped in. "There I was," he said, "bollock naked on all-fours secured to the bed while wearing a gimp mask and unable to make myself heard. She must have thought my groans were those of pleasure rather than agony for she kept taking longer and longer run ups to whack me harder." He described the traumatic experience as "buttock clenching."

The conversation drifted to football away days of yore when aggro was in vogue. Not that he was to be seen when the fur flew. "Did you ever, just once, stand with your mates?" I asked. "No, never," said the rotter, "I always turned and ran like feck."

One infamous occasion was when Exeter's firm the Anti-Welsh League bravely charged the all-conquering Soul Crew along their city's High Street. Sludge was near the front when the Devon thugs came into view a safe distance away. Believing they wouldn't attack, he limbered up with some shadow boxing and casual stretching exercises. Then the assembled foe begun to chant as they readied themselves for battle. "Ooo-arr, ooo-arr, ooo-arr" they repeated over and over and more audibly until their blood-curdling cries reached a crescendo. Sludge gulped loudly as though he'd swallowed a gobstopper. "I almost shat myself," he confessed.

He legged it to the refuge of a Mothercare outlet faster than Linford Christie in his prime could have. As his outnumbered former comrades heroically repelled a sustained onslaught just yards away he glided from aisle to aisle inside the store feigning interest in prams and pushchairs while making crude observations about the swollen bellies and knockers of expectant mothers he lured into conversations with.

I can tell you now a few of those Exeter ladies won't forget my fleeting visit that
Sunny day

[SLUDGE FACTORY]

The man is talking utter rubbish

[The Bob Banker Spanker]

The man is talking utter sense and the complete truth

FYP