I don’t know what it is about the hot weather, but it always makes me feel insatiably horny. In my lunch hour today, I was walking through the high street looking at some of the passers-by, feeling positively aroused. Now if you’ve ever been to Wolverhampton, you will appreciate this is no mean feat. For any readers who have never witnessed the people of our town (they call it a City, but it will always be a town to me), just imagine the queue at your local Greggs the Bakers. Can you picture that? Now imagine that a heyday Geoff Capes enters the shop amidst some kind of nervous breakdown, and indiscriminately launches into a fit of merciless violent attacks. With a hammer. The resulting aftermath gives you a vague idea what the populace of an average Wolverhampton street looks like. In other words it is grim. The only saving grace is that at least it’s not as grim as Dudley. For any readers who have never witnessed the people of Dudley, just imagine the kind of produce sold at your local Greggs the Baker. Now imagine that a heyday Geoff Capes enters the shop amidst some kind of nervous breakdown, and indiscriminately launches into a fit of merciless violent attacks. With a pnuematic drill. Any resulting chunks of squashed pastry and smeared gushy filling gives you a vague idea what the populace of an average street in Dudley looks like.
I am joking of course. I don’t know why I am specifically attacking the people of Wolverhampton or Dudley. I could have picked anywhere. In many ways, these are actually the most ill-advised places in the world for me to be making fun out of, as I am effectively in danger of alienating myself from both my home-town and its neighbouring town as well. This isn’t so much shitting on my own doorstep, as frenziedly wanking through my own letterbox.
Although judging by the current state of my libido, that coquettish letterbox might yet turn out to be a tempting consummation.
