Fat Bloke on a Bike

Well, have you spotted it yet?  If you are a regular reader have you detected the little 'between-the-lines' nuances in what I write?  The undertones?  The subliminal stuff? 'You write about sex an awful lot Wayne', said Bananarama, the little yellow bird on the phone yesterday.  Really?  What gives you that impression?  Is it because I write about my aching bits, my sore testicles and my balloon dog?  You think this blog has become a pseudonym, a proxy, a substitute for a sex life?  Don't know about you but when you ride a bike for any distance tell me which parts of your body suffer the most.  Blokes first please.  Yeah, I agree.  The number of times I've ridden the bike down the street with legs akimbo to stop my nicknacks from tumbling back and forth across the seat which for the girls to know is the most unusual feeling apparently like having yer bits firmly massaged by a couple of greasy female Bulgarian wrestlers!  Ahem,...

For sure the continued self isolation gives me way too much time to watch TV, which to all intents and purposes has become the planets biggest shopping channel occasionally interjected with rubbish programmes.  It's so full of crap advertising that surely everything worth saying or showing must've been done by now.  So in their desire to get the 'angle' on how to launch a new product we find the advertising executives really starting to scrape the bottom of the barrel.   Take the recent advert for Buscopan.  You know, the flatulence remedy?  The advert shows a woman confidently proclaiming with a beaming smile how she now feels great and able to take up on-line dating again!  I'm rolling around laughing with tears running down my cheeks.  I Imagine that she's finally in an intimate situation with the new guy and just as she's leaning over to..., well I'll let you decide what she's leaning over to do..., but because of a problem with the formulation a...

Have a guess.  Go on.  Guess which idiot, whilst swirling his pinkies around in a hot soapy sink full of washing up suds, raking about trying to find the remaining teaspoon, managed to find the rarely used but razor sharp meat cleaver that he'd totally forgotten he'd used only moments earlier?  OOOHH!  SHHHH!  FECK!  Yeah. Not only am I a master at slashing my fingers, I also introduce a lot of danger to my other pinkies every time I go for a ride.  Poor things.  It's a horrible existence for them.  Permanently stuck in a black sweaty hairy hammock.  Doing their best to avoid the long white pillars of blubber as they swing back and forth.  They never get to see the Sun, ever.  And they have no choice; if I decide to go for a ride then they have to come along too.  For sure there is no way yet for one to detach ones bits before a ride, leave them hung up in the pantry with the other coconuts; and, successfully reattach them...