Saturday, 31 December 2011

Dirty macs and pebble glasses.

I used to have a grubby overcoat. I left it unattended once and it escaped. I have no idea where it is now. Probably returned to the wild and building a nest somewhere.

It was great. Literally. A grey greatcoat from the Army surplus store. You could put a full pint glass in the pocket and not spill a drop.

In Cardiff there used to be (maybe still is) a shabby cinema called the Prince of Wales in which, it was said, the moaning and groaning from the screen was often interrupted by the rustling of paper tissues and empty crisp packets. It was also said that if you stayed still throughout the film you risked being stuck to the seat. Despite being the proud owner of a grubby overcoat, I never entered the establishment to check. They wouldn't have let me in anyway. My glasses were barely curved and that apparently marks me as a mere apprentice perv. The folk going in there had proper bottle-end glasses, so thick that their eyes looked bigger than their heads, and coats that needed no hangers because they could stand on their own.

So the filthy cinema existed and I didn't want to make any use of it. How did it impact upon my life? Not at all.

Porn is of little interest to biologists, I hope, because that's my excuse. It's like an anatomy lecture. I once sat on Cardiff Queen Street station, facing the stairs from below, when an extraordinarily attractive, skimpily clad and very slim girl climbed those stairs. Guess the first thought in my head? I was about 20. What was my first thought? I'll tell you.

"You'd never get thirty feet of intestine in there".

My second thought was "Maybe I'm working too much."

When you know what the human (and animal) body looks like on the inside and have handled and experimented with those internal bits, naked bodies don't have the same effect as they do on other people. I don't see your skin colour at all. I don't even see your skin. I see the bone structure, the musculature, the adipose tissue, the churning of your intestines, the flow in your capillaries and watching porn films, all I see are the mechanics of reproduction. It's as exciting as any other instructional video. Might as well have Mr. Cholmondley-Warner in grey suit and neat moustache explaining it and pointing out the pertinent bits with a long stick.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not some emotionless Vulcan-type thing. I'm not a medical doctor either. I have spent more time than is healthy around pieces carved from animals and humans and been present when those pieces were carved from the corpses and sometimes from not-yet-corpses. I'm no use to you if you get stabbed while I'm there because I don't have even first-aid training, but I won't lose my head or pass out either. You'll lose consciousness to the sound of me droning into my phone "No, I don't think he'll survive that long. Can't you get here sooner? He really doesn't look very well at all." I promise to resist the urge to see how far in the knife is and to take a sample from your perforated transverse colon.

But I digress. Porn is of little interest to me and anyway, those that are sometimes put on at Smoky-Drinky involve blokes that just make me feel inadequate. All I'm thinking is "How come he doesn't pass out, since most of his blood is pumping that thing up?" and "She is going to regret stretching her rectal sphincter to that extent when she gets older". I have learned to keep quiet during such screenings.

Strip clubs are of no interest to me either. Having some woman who wouldn't normally give me the time of day taking her clothes off and waggling her baby-buffets at me is no different to someone standing the other side of a bulletproof glass screen and drinking whisky at me. It's just cruel.

I don't wish to visit strip clubs so... I don't go there. It's not a problem. I don't care if one opens next door, I still won't go there. Will I object to it? Why would I? I'm not going in there and their clientele are not likely to want to come here (even though I now have a USB microscope so could potentially wave my bits visibly) so it would be no different to having the Plastic family living there. It might even be preferable.

Actually... if there was any kind of club next door... and I put up a sign saying "You can smoke in here all night for a fiver"... and drilled a few peepholes in the wall... hmmm.

There have apparently been lots of new 'Chicken Choker' clubs opening in the UK because of what the banmeisters like to call a 'loophole' in the 2003 licensing law. They could open just like a karaoke bar - which is far more of an offensive thing in my view. Then the new law clamping down on them came in, in 2009, classing them as 'Wankemporiums' or some such thing, and councils who have never had a place for sperm donor rejects to gather have banned them anyway.

Sounds a bit like that idea for 24-hour licencing that is now blamed for excessive drinking while pubs close at a rate of knots exceeded only by a Vindaloo-and-beans-powered hydroplane and none of them are actually open 24 hours and never have been. Set up the perceived problem so you can then impose the controls.

That wasn't a loophole. That was intentional. 24-hour licencing was never going to be widely taken up but it's a great thing to blame excessive drinking on while real booze intake falls. Let loads of clubs open for the dirty mac brigade through a 'loophole' and then you get the drones all worked up and close the loophole and they think you're wonderful. The Brown Gorgon tried to do the same with casinos but he was too dim to use the insidious techniques of Tiny Blur so he failed. Never mind, the 'no safe level of gambling' meme appeared anyway.

The Cleggeron Coagulation are not smart enough to see how this game works so they're playing along like good little Borg drones. Both have even pretended to give up smoking as instructed. If they use Electrofag, they dare not admit it.

(By the way, the Electrofag cigar isn't much good. Ordinary Electrofags can do the flavour and they work better. I'm thinking of trying an Electropipe one day, anyone tried one?)

The 'Down with this sort of thing' groups are out in force. There must be no knob-hardening experiences available even for those so repellent that even Slotgob wouldn't defend them in a human rights case on the grounds that she's not sure they qualify as human. Even the RSPCA would have to think twice. No equality for the frictionally challenged then.

I've seen a little Japanese porn in the past. I do not recommend it, it is nasty. To my analytical mind it appears to be based on the premise that women do not like any kind of sexual experience and must be forced. That is a horrible perspective, it is akin to the Middle East idea that women are pure until they have had sex (no matter how) and then they are to be reviled. It is, to be blunt, scary to find that such attitudes exist in the world. It is terrifying to see them arise here.

The Japanese tentacle stuff, well, if that turns you on you are seriously weird. Even octopi have, when shown this, tapped out the Morse code for "WTF?"

But then most of that Japanese stuff is cartoons. Nobody really gets poked in every orifice by a grinning demon who has fifteen tentacles with an elephant penis on the end of each one. Well, nobody I know has ever mentioned such an experience anyway.

Those clubs pay women to wave their bits at men who have no chance at all of ever finding themselves in an amorous encounter with anyone more attractive than a Macbeth witch. So, are the women being exploited? The Daily Drunk Reporter thinks so.

In October a case was brought to light which highlighted the alleged poor terms dancers at strip clubs have to with.

Terrible terms of employment. Waggling your doo-dahs on minimum wage must be so degrading.

Nadine Quashie earned up to £1,265 a night at the club dancing topless on stage wearing only a G-string and dancing naked in private.

(long pause) ... WHAT? I will waggle what I have for a tenth of that price. £126.50 a night and you can see it all (no touching, no tweezers) and after a £40 bottle of Lagavulin I'll have enough left over to get drunk. Okay, let's say £12.65 each for party rates and it's a deal. If that is exploitation, where do I sign?

Last month she won her three-year battle to take the club Stringfellow's to an employment tribunal.
She had complained of unfair dismissal but was told she had no right to a tribunal because she was self-employed.

Uh... that's exploitation? I am self employed. If those who employ me don't want any more work done, that's the end of that.

On that basis, every self-employed person whose contract ends and is not renewed is exploited. Funny, I never felt exploited when it happened. I felt paid. The work I did was paid for except in a couple of cases where I won't do work for them again, but that, in self-employment land, is called 'live and learn'.

These women are self-employed and can earn more in one night than I can in a month and that is exploitation? The Wimmin think so.

Anna van Heeswijk, of the feminist pressure group Object, told The Times: 'Putting in a nil limit is part of ensuring the safety of women. It's part of a council's responsibility. It's an issue of local democracy.'

So, stopping a self-employed woman earning £1265 in one night just for dancing around, no more, without even makeup or wardrobe assistants to pay,  is part of the emancipation of women, is it? You idiot, Anna, these women could earn enough to retire at 40 before it all goes to gravity and then set up in business or just live off the interest. If there was any call for hideous little old men to do this I'd be right in there even though I can no longer retire before 55 even if there was a secret massive market for badly-formed nude monsters with bits even mice laugh at..

This ban on chutney-chucker clubs will not affect me because those clubs are of no interest to me, but they are just another smoking ban to those who can see it. You didn't like the smoky pub so you didn't go there, yet you banned them and protected all those smoking bar staff and owners from other people's smoke by putting them on the dole.

I don't care about what happens inside the Tadger-Tugger's Club so I don't go there, and yet I am supposed to be offended by this? Why? I have never seen it and avoiding seeing it is easy. I see a sign saying 'Wankers, this way' and go the other way. As in the old days when an antismoker could open a pub door, say "Pooh, my delicate girlie nostrils cry the tears of the Nile at the stench of reality" and then fuck off out of everyone's way.

So what happened to diversity? We used to have that before it became a legal requirement and now we don't have it any more. We used to have all kinds of people living in this country, some nice and some nasty, but the law and the MSM is pushing us into blue overalls, Chinese-style.

The drones don't see it. They are not pushing diversity. They are pushing conformity.

Tighter and tighter conformity.

What we are supposed to conform to isn't yet clear but consider that China now has control of most of the world and....

Mae win ti


Rob F said...

Not that I've ever tried it, but wearing a grubby mac with nothing else but shorts, dirty shoes and white socks would probably guarantee you a lot of personal space on a train or a bus.

Single acts of tyranny said...

The Prince of Wales is now a night club inevitably.  So not too much has changed.

mrs.raft said...

The clubs should re-define themselves as religious establishments, churches,  and let's see the judges doing legal contortions to try to show why they aren't.   The law has been wobbling round this argument about who can say a thing is a religion and who can't for almost a decade now and there should be some spectacular cases opening up in 2012. 

Dave said...

The Prince of Wales in Cardiff isn't a nightclub - it's now a Wetherspoons pub: 

Julia said...

"Nadine Quashie earned up to £1,265 a night at the club dancing topless on stage wearing only a G-string and dancing naked in private."

I bet that's not the figure she put on her tax return!

John Pickworth said...

When I were not much more than a lad, I had a rather interesting Saturday job at a 'private' cinema. I can't remember what the pay was but it was almost as much as my regular weekday employment at the time.

Anyway, myself and another (we most likely looked like a Wham tribute act) sat in a little kiosk collecting entrance fees from the much older overcoated patrons while we watched Tiswas on the office TV... its too surreal even after all these years! Our only other task was to switch tapes on the new fangled VHS and to keep the two antiquated 16mm projectors fed with reels of fresh celluloid from Holland. 

We had a mother and daughter that came in late afternoon to clear away the crisp packets from the auditorium too.

 Did all that early exposure to the continent's worst cause me any harm? Not at all. And I've never felt the need to step inside a similar establishment since... even assuming any still exist?

Legiron said...

So does working with pigshit.

Legiron said...

There used to be a cinema here. A normal one. Then it became a nightclub and now it's a Wetherspoons. I think that must be evolution in action because it happens everywhere.

Legiron said...

The Dirty Mac Religion? Well, they do have a uniform of sorts and they do gather for 'certain rituals' so that might work.

I dread to think what the fundamentalists might be like though.

Legiron said...

Sounds like it's followed the normal evolutionary path...

Legiron said...

Maybe that's the part the government no longer likes... cash transactions.

Legiron said...

You actually worked in one? I bet you have well-washed hands!

John Pickworth said...

The only 'hand-cranking' I did was manually rewinding 400 foot of Debbie Does Doncaster 3 or 4 times a shift. 

Thinking back, the place was as seedy as you might imagine but strangely we were disconnected from that aspect. The place pretty much ran itself and other than the two 18/19 year old Tiswas fans selling the tickets there were no other staff. The auditorium was unmonitored so gawd knows what was happening in there... it always seemed best not to think about it too much. My guess, judging from the furtive members sliding bashfully past our window, its likely they did little more than spend a little quality time alone with their empty packet of Golden Wonder while dreaming of Debbie up on the big screen. 

Tomtuckerthesilly said...

wow too much funny vids and no sleep...a classic blog

Angry Squaddie said...


I have a genuine Army greatcoat going spare if you want it?


RAB said...

The Prince of Wales was a venerable old theatre once upon a time. It had a proper stage, I went on school trips there to see things like Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn when I was ten.

You being a drinky/smokey Leggy, do you remember the "Proper" Tobacconist that was next door? Mangy stuffed Grizzly bear by the door, where you could get Abdullah's and Sobranie?

My mate and I were assistant projectionists at Chapter for a while too. You had to learn how to change reels and do a run through to note all the cues for the end of reel etc. Happy days!

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