Woppit is away

Yes yes yes I know. I'll get round to it at some point soon. You'll appreciate it more the longer have to wait.

Flatter than Spitzbergen

Are you familiar with The Fens? If not, then the best way for me to describe The Fens is to tell you what it isn't. The Fens is not a new wave indie band. Neither is it a badly spelt name for the wooden partition at the bottom of your garden. The Fens is, or more accurately, are, an area in the east of England near Cambridge that is not known for it's mountaineering opportunities, ski pistes, or any activity involving any sort of slope. The Fens are in fact, flat as a bloody pancake.

Given the pancake like nature of the terrain, this means that the wind has nothing in it's path to stop it. I know this not because I am an expert in wetland geology or indeed meteorology. I know this because I stood in the middle of a Cambridgeshire field earlier this morning. The Fenland wind has a character all of it's own. Somehow it comes straight from the frozen wastes of Siberia, misses out the rest of Western Europe altogether, and lands here. It is bone freezing, eye-watering, scrotum shrinkingly bitter. And this is the reason why all the local farmers round here speak in very high voices. ("Weee weeee weeee oi loike sheep an' taytoes!")

You may as well forget dating someone round here at this time of year. There is no romance involved in struggling to undo the toggles on a bird's many layers of duffle-coated insulation. And for starters, your bloody fingers will be like frozen carrots so you may as well be wearing boxing gloves for all the dexterity that they will offer you. Most men round here still have no idea what a bra looks like. Sex is performed by dint of a length of insulated gas piping, an icing syringe, horse linament, and a blowtorch.

My advice to visitors to The Fens at this time of year is as follows:

1. Watch where you put your feet. Ankles can easily sprain on a frozen dog turd.
2. Drink heavily. This will control the shivering.
3. Put corn plasters over your nipples. Otherwise you will have someones eye out.
4. Under no circumstances attempt to lick anything metal.
5. Try your best to grow a luxuriant coating of body hair. Not only will this insulate you, but it will also help you to blend in with the locals.

Actually, the same advice applies for those wishing to visit Spitzbergen. This is a service I'm providing here, you know.
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Chilled beauty

I was introduced to Miss Spain a little while ago by my friend Jason. It was in a trendy vodka bar in the City, just the sort of place where one might expect to spot the odd celeb. (Also just the sort of place where you need to remortgage your house in order to get pissed. But that's beside the point.)

Miss Spain was indeed beautiful. She was everything you would hope for in a first class airline stewardess. It would need to be first class because she's a little wide in the beam, but don't get me wrong, you wouldn't kick her out of bed for smelling of paella.

One thing that instantly strikes you about Miss Spain is her eyes. They are huge and brown, and extremely absorbing. They are like deep dark melted chocolate truffles. They suck your sensibility in and leave you struggling for intelligent comment and conversation. "So, how do you know Jason?" she asked. "Hnng. Mamamaba labama hamamamaaa" I replied.

She frowned at me suspiciously. I summoned up the self-control to ask a reasonably constructed question in return. "So, if you were to win Miss World, what would you do?"

"Well, what would you do?" she fired back, slightly spikily. "What would you do eef you were Mees World?"

I couldn't have imagined what I would do if I was Miss World. I couldn't have imagined because my imagination was already fully occupied in imagining other more current imaginings. I was imagining what she would look like if I just reached over and undid both of her shoulder straps. And because my mind was occupied with this delicious task, I didn't really think before opening my stupid gob, and hearing a voice that sounded very much like mine saying, "Me? Miss World? Haha! Well, goodness, I'd probably go to bed for a year and play with my jugs." Heee haw.

She didn't even flinch. She blinked at me once, before turning and sipping her Martini. "You are," she said, from the very depth of her soul, "very stupeed man."

She was right. Stupid stupid boy.
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Woppit etymology

Etymology, contrary to what you might think, has nothing at all to do with insects. It is in fact, the study of words and their usage. I am a fan of etymology. I love words, especially the naughty ones.

I would like to share with you my joy at discovering, courtesy of the marvellous and erudite Marcus Brigstocke, a brand new word. Allow me to expand on this.

Imagine if you will, a woman of a certain age. And of a certain weight. A woman who has elected to wear a particularly high waisted style of trouser, with the belt done up rather too tightly so that it seems to suck everything in. Now, if one progresses south from the belt there exists, before one arrives at the pubis, the area of the "fly" or "zipper". This area actually extends outwards. It seems to bulge and swell, almost to hang. And this area, ladies and gentlemen, has a name.

It is called.....

......the gunt.
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Seven

I've been tagged by TangoNovemberBravo, for Christ's sake. As if a celebrity like myself hasn't got anything better to do than rummage about in the foul smelling jungle detritus of my past in order to find 7 star facts about myself with which to feed your tabloid-like wants. I am being asked to expose the nameless streaks in the underpants of Woppit history. All I get in return is the chance to hope that some other bugger will also get their "pants of life" out and enable us all to have a jolly good laugh.

Sounds like fair dinkum to me.


Here are 7 things that you might not want to know about yours truly:

1. My left armpit always gets much whiffier than the right armpit. I have no idea why.

2. Biggest cock in South London.
(I met him last weekend. He is called Richard Wheeler and he lives in Anerley)

3. I called the woman in the Post Office "poo-face" last week.

4. I will do almost anything for large amounts of money. I'm not poor. I just like money.

5. When I am on my own, I listen to overblown pompous bombastic progressive rock music.

6. When I have polite company, I listen to overblown pompous bombastic progressive rock music.

7. Young's Special makes me fart

I'm not going to tag anyone else because frankly it's a pain in the arse and I cant be bothered.

Have a lovely Friday.

Early bartering systems that didn't work

"Good afternoon shopkeeper. A dozen fresh eggs please."

"Certainly Sir. That'll be a dozen fresh eggs."

World Blog Council Approves Handsome Woppit

I finally feel that I have truly arrived.

This is unfortunate as I am wearing linen trousers.