A Year Ago Today: In Rude Mode

Facebook reminded me of this, for I had forgotten: On May 17th 2016, I wrote a jolly little piece all about the physical effects of ageing upon one’s prized bits. (https://orangehairedalienorabrowning.wordpress.com/2016/05/17/going-south/)

This prompted someone to re-flag one of my all-time-favourite posts: Duck with a Dick!

Now, P.G.Wodehouse often used to make the point I am about to in his Bertie Wooster novels: How much background information should a writer bung in about previous pieces? Should one assume that everyone has read everything and would, therefore, be bored titless by trawling back through the past? Or should one be catering to those to whom one is new and give the basic outline?

So, for those new to my oeuvre: In December 2015, I drove to Clark’s Village, in Street, to finish off my Christmas shopping – and was lured into Menkind almost immediately. There I found a young couple, with their offspring draped over the male of the species’ shoulder, in fits of almost hysterical laughter. Upon investigation – and amused by the bloke’s incoherent gasped utterances – I discovered that they had found the wonderful and infamous bath toy to end all bath toys: The Duck with a Dick!

As soon as I saw this creature, with its humungous appendage, I joined the merry mirth and, within nano-seconds, the three of us were gasping away and making seal noises in unison. Around us, po-faced and disapproving shoppers were giving us the slab-like glare with the Zombie eye, but we ignored them.

So I grabbed a duck and ploughed my way through the crowd to the desk. It was manned – or should that be ‘womaned’? –  by two young things of the female persuasion, the shyer of whom asked me (and I bet she’s been regretting this ever since!), ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Well…’ I said, probably in decibels that could be heard in Thornton’s, ‘I’ve got Item A, Exhibit B and a Duck with a Dick! What more could a woman want, eh?’

Through the hissy fits breaking out behind me (I swear I heard the words, ‘How uncouth!’), I discerned a little gurgle, followed by an open flood of hysterical laughter from the ladies at the till. Meanwhile, the wee family, sprog still attached to shoulder, were continuing to give it some serious welly in the barking with mirth department.

Did I keep the aforesaid large-of-todger mallard? No! I was tempted; I won’t lie – but it had been bought for someone else and that person did, indeed, have the vast pleasure, and intemperate hilarity, of unwrapping it on Christmas Day!

You may wonder why I am dredging these two up from the depths now. It is a dark and gloomy day, and the rain is falling down in mini torrents – and I think I am in need of a very important reminder (to self, but also to anyone else feeling a bit down): During the Hell that was 2015 and 2016, I never totally lost my love for the double entendre, the vulgar, the funny; I never, that is to say, completely lost my sense of bawdy humour or stopped laughing altogether, though there were times (I will freely admit) when I thought I would never smile again, let alone indulge in life-giving and raucous spurts of guffawing.

That Duck with a Dick (and my post about things Going South) represents an important symbol, if you like: A symbol of hope, of humour, of sex, of the ability to weather storms with crone-like chortling.

It was, and is, a symbol that my spirit was never completely broken.


Going South?


We use the expression ‘Going South’ as a humorous way of describing something most of us will face eventually.

When used about the human body, going south is quite definitely not a compliment – is, in fact, something to be avoided at all costs. It means, basically, that one’s assets are sagging: Boobs heading in a southerly direction down towards the knees, arse slithering towards the ankles, face indistinguishable from the large wattle depending from the neck and enough prolapses down yonder to keep the most fanatical gynaecologist as happy as a pig in shit.

There is more than a slight feeling of ‘Going Tits Up’ ism about this phrase – even though, ironically, the aforesaid mammaries are doing anything but heading in an upwardly direction. But there does seem to be this inbuilt, slightly sour, implication behind those two words that one’s bodily droop is damned careless and one’s own bally fault for not being more careful, for not ensuring that one’s bits and bobs remained in a perky northerly-pointing direction.

On the other hand, North is notoriously cold, whereas South has a reputation for heat – so maybe in some cultures having bosoms like cantaloupes hanging low from a tree and an overhang you could balance a goat on is the epitome of sexual attractiveness! Who the hell knows?


And, for all we know, the ghastly old harridan pictured above could be someone’s secret fantasy, the erotic centre of his entire universe! Seems a tad unlikely, I know, but sexual hankerings are as unfathomable as most of the rest of  the human condition. Frankly you can’t tell me, in a world which includes men getting aroused when sat on and squashed by ten-tonne Tessies, that there isn’t a cadre of Granny-Shaggers out there somewhere who would pay good money to slip Grendel’s Mother in the red coat a length.

This post may well be too hot, dangerous and southerly for the system to cope with!

Do I care?


The entire system seems, itself, to have Gone South since the weekend – and, given that the Reader appears to have sent me to Coventry (AGAIN!), I might as well enjoy myself musing over rude thoughts and outrageous images under the assumption that no one will actually see this post anyway!


Bottoms up!