Emotional Support…Peacock!

Yeah! Just what I want most when I am feeling down in the dumps: A fucking great preening bird, clicking up and down the aisles of Easyjet’s latest flight, tossing its admittedly rather fine feathers, making that Godawful noise these birds make (the kind of back-of-the-throat grating that sounds as if they have just swallowed a knackered hurdy-gurdy), crapping all over the fixtures and fittings, hogging both toilets (in order to peer yet again in the mirror) and, basically, creating about the same level of emotional support as a long-range missile.

Mind you, the image made me laugh so much, I nearly recycled my toast and Marmite on the spot – and people’s hilarious responses on Facebook (a friend was all for including her pet Charolais Bull on the next available flight) have done much to cheer up the pissingly awful belt of rain unleashing itself all over Glastonbury.

Let’s face it, this endearingly daft idea is no worse than many other side-splittingly weird and wonderful things we see on the News and read in the papers on a daily basis.

In fact, I rather take to the bringing up-to-date of one of the great Biblical stories: Just imagine – an Ark in the Sky (plane, to you and me!) and all les animaux queueing up, in twos of course, patiently (ha, bloody, ha!) at the Security Gate in order to be x-rayed (lest they have swallowed the odd Condom filled with heroin or brought some noxious disease – Peacock Plague for eg – in their various bills, crops, cloacas and others bits and bobs!), their luggage to be opened, checked and sneered at – and then to be let loose in the concourse to run riot, mob the Duty Free shops and clog up the bogs!

Where was I?

Fuck knows!

Oh yes, about to board Easyjet Flight Noah1 with the known creatures of the Earth. Getting the buggers seated would require the patience of Job. Seatbelts? Christ on a bike! That’s another three hours gone! And the safety instructions would take hours too because everything would have to be said at least five times, and half the passengers would have eaten their safety masks well before take-off.

The cockpit would need to be locked throughout otherwise you’d get bison barging in and getting underfoot, elephant causing the plane to dip alarmingly, monkeys looking for fleas in the Captain’s hair – and sodding peacocks peering through the front window, pecking at the glass and looking at their reflections in the instrument panel.

What with the in-flight entertainment (species eating one another, joining the Mile High Club, throwing up all over the shop and biting the hard-pressed staff), the Patriarch in understandable meltdown and Ham, Shem and Japhet standing around like shop dummies doing bugger-all, this would be the journey from, and into, Hell!


Don’t give me bloody peacocks!!


No Inkling: Workshop? No: Influenza, Chest Infection and Bed…


I had no inkling, when a slight cough greeted my awakening on Friday January 19th, that ten days of influenza and general misery would follow…

I should be in Scotland right now, enjoying the company of friends and sharing the second day adventure of a Ritual Drama/Magic Workshop.

I am not. Having been in bed for most of the past ten days, getting out and about in Glastonbury is currently a bridge too far, never mind anything North of the Border. I am not going to pretend that I feel New Age acceptance, Fluffy Bunny bollocks or that I am floating serenely above it all. I do not, and am not. The bout of illness has coincided with a vast blow from another area – and I am not going to insult any of my readers by adopting a Holier Than Thou/All Part of Life’s Rich Tapestry/There’s a Higher Reason frame of mind.

Never do, do I? Ain’t going to start now!

I feel unwell, though nowhere near as bad as I did on January 19th when the little viral sods starting swarming and multiplying their nasty heads off, or on the 23rd when the shock came shattering and splintering its way in, or the 24th when a big opportunistic bugger grabbed hold of my lungs and decided that a chest infection would be a lovely present for me to receive too.

I have felt like death inadequately warmed up since – and looked pale and wan too: Most unlike me; I have always tended towards the roseate, the bucolic, the rural milkmaid in full bloom look and so the whiteness of cheek has been pretty bloody unusual. Mind you, lack of appetite does not exactly promote a healthy appearance!

Full Monty, it was: The aches and the shakes; the shivering and burning; the incessant coughing; the sweating so profuse that my nightmares propelled me out onto a kind of latter-day Ali’s Ark, afrift in my own sputum and glandular extrusions, desperately searching for dry land! Deeply unpleasant!

Did I have a Flu Jab? Do Popes crap in the woods?! Of course I did. I always do. Made bog-all difference this time round, though I gather that the strain of flu boinging its way over from Climes Antipodean is a particularly vicious one: The metaphorical Plague Rat of the species, ready to bite armpits and groins and spread its buboes far and wide.

So, how did I feel at my worst? Having sped past the relative shallows of ‘rough as a badger’s arse’, sneered mightily at the trifling inconvenience implied by ‘coarse as a porcupine’s nutsack’, I have arrived at a land beyond that covered by animals and similes relating to their privy parts and just feel, or have felt, fucking dire, whilst also (in the infection sense) ducking fire…

That my dry sense of humour is surging back strikes me as a bloody good thing. Tears have been shed at the same rate as the rest of the liquid outpouring in recent days and my bed, more and more reminiscent of a swamp, may well need to be wrung dry by the hydraulic equivalent of a lemon squeezer.

Begone, Flu Virus! You have made your point – and some! Bugger off and annoy someone else, or slink into the Midden of Infectious Diseases which is all you and your egregious type deserve!

Yes, I should be in Scotland –  and feel sick as a toucan that I am immured in durance repellent instead.

A Trip to Yeovil Hospital

Ye gods, I sure know how to have a good time, don’t I? Most people visit ancient monuments, pleasure gardens and beaches. Me? Hospitals!

So, going back a tad: Just post-Christmas, I had an episode of chest pain – and ended up in the local MIU (Minor Injuries Unit, NOT to be confused with that staple of rural living, the Mothers’ Institute  for Ungulates).

Once the nurse had established that I actually HAD a heart, and that it was beating as it should be, I was referred, via a kindly doctor, to Cardiology – and given my choice of Taunton or Yeovil.

Taunton, an arsehole of a vortex (and probably the new HQ of Voldemort), I discounted immediately, reasoning that the Mephistophelian road system in and out of the ruddy place was likely to GIVE me a Myocardial Infarct well before I got anywhere near the hospital.

So, Yeovil it was. I had never actually driven to this town – and so Serena, my snooty sat nav, was plugged in and given the coordinates. Naturally, she baulked at my instruction initially and refused to recognise the District Hospital, trying to convince me that my rightful destination was Ayr (Yeah, right: I may be cretinous at Geography, but even I know the difference between Somerset and Scotland).

But, once I had threatened to take the car jack to her inner parts, she sulked for a while then shut up and switched on the correct map.

Off I drove into a murderous mist! Lovely! Put it this way, I would not have been at all surprised to find the infamous Grey Mare coming into view (and weighed down by her spectral companions, still looking in vain for Widecombe Fair). It was the kind of weather that was, back in the 19th century, a gift to Jack, the Ripper, when he was plying his grisly trade in and around Whitechapel.

Despite the atmospheric gloom, and lights on full beam, I managed to reach the hospital – and its cavernous and slightly creepy car park – with no problem, apart, that is, from a slight diversion when I took the wrong exit from a roundabout and a minor skirmish when I swerved to avoid a bloated badger (they are a bugger to get off the tyres when they explode!)…

As soon as I got to Cardiology, my eye fell upon a rack of books. Being particularly fond of detective stories – especially those with a good meaty murder or two – I bought a couple of tomes to keep me going during the wait. Just as well. My fellow patients were anything but. There was the woman with two small weans, one of whom had a voice like a corncrake and made its presence felt. The woman next to me (who looked as if she had been ineptly stuffed by a rogue taxidermist) spent the whole time on her mobile phone. Then, there was the Ditch Dweller (as I privately named him): A hulk of a man, who must have stood well over six foot five, and who looked so festerous that he gave whole new meaning to the phrase ‘living rough’…

I had time to wonder, as I usually do, how the nurse would deal with ‘Alienora’ when my turn came, before immersing myself in the world of murder and mayhem in the Shetlands.

Slightly to my disappointment, the aforesaid Angel of Medical Mercy wimped out and called, ‘Mrs Taylor?’

Once inside the cubicle, she told me to nip up onto the bed and divest myself of all my upper cladding other than my bra.

She did ask if I wanted the curtains pulled across – but, for a woman who has been  a nude model and given birth, such delicacy, though appreciated, is completely unnecessary!

She then wiped my chest down with one of those alcohol-impregnated wipes (which, at that proximity, was so strong, it nearly melted my sinuses!), before affixing the little pads and attaching divers wires to my person.

My second ECG in two weeks followed – and, once suitably dressed once more, I was led into another room to meet the doctor.

He was very reassuring and, having asked me loads of questions, was satisfied that the problem lay not in my heart, but in my hiatus hernia – and that, attempting to eat my own body-weight in chocolate during the festive period, plus the tension of those days, was far more likely to be the cause of the pain.

A huge relief, I must say.

Turning Serena on (as it were: I’m not that desperate!) for the return trip was a damn sight easier: All I had to do was flick a feisty finger over the, ‘Drive Home, Bitch!’ symbol and the machine, suitably cowed, behaved impeccably and directed me Glastonbury-wards.

Note: V4 in we females ventures beneath the old Bap Holster – and into, as one might say, the Milking Shed! Jolly good thing my nurse was female! Too early in the morning to have an unknown male ferreting about in there, frankly!

Breakfast at Geckos!

Beautiful it was yesterday, the fine spines of winter trees bathed in morning sun and a January glow over Glastonbury as I drove town-ward.

But, back a bit for I have run ahead of myself! Saturday night, my friend, Terry Welsharcher Payne (aka Pagan in A Van ), invited me to join him – and divers others of a Pagan persuasion – in the Lazy Gecko Cafe for breakfast.

How could I resist so splendid an invite? Food, fine company, a glorious day; what’s not to like?!

Terry lives permanently in Bronwyn, his van, and travels near and far, in search of work and adventure, blogging about his experiences on Facebook (Adventures Of A Pagan In A Van.). He is a most entertaining raconteur and a lovely guy to boot.


Pointing Pep (my Polo) at a space in the Abbey car park, I dashed across the road and was soon cosily ensconced in the aforesaid eatery with Terry and his friend, S. Jolly convivial it all was too, what with steaming bidets of coffee and the promise of the full Vegetarian breakfast for later,

The three of us were soon yakking away, as we Pagans tend to do given half a chance and a good following wind – and were soon deep into discussions about an Alternative Glastonbury Festival which, taking in some of the spirit and ethos of the Renaissance Fair in the States (started by Phyllis and Ron Patterson in the early sixties), would be abristle with archers,  drowning  in stoups of ale,  perked up by comely wenches in mediaeval gear and would feature estampies of music from that time played on krumhorms, viols and the like.

Sounds marvellous to me – but then I am a mediaevalist at heart, even down to the original spelling of the word!

But, more immediately to the point, Terry suggested a monthly pig-out (without the pig, of course!) at the Lazy Gecko Cafe so that any and all enthusiasts (for Renaissance fairs, Historical Re-enactment, longbows, Archery, mead-making…) could gather together and talk, laugh, hit the trough and generally bond.

At this point, roughly speaking, in came Matthew and Ted, the former an aficionado of Historical Re-enactment and immensely knowledgeable too; the latter a creator, amongst many other things, of beautiful art work painted upon wood.


Ted’s Twin Dragons and the Tor.

The breakfast (which could have fed several!) duly arrived and I was soon up to my proverbials in vegetarian sausages, egg, tomatoes, toast and baked beans. Gurt lush, as we say in these parts.

I had a wonderful and inspiring couple of hours with my fellow breakfasters – and think the whole thing a brilliant idea. I can really see this taking off, growing, becoming all manner of colourful and lively initiatives.

Lovely place to meet; fantastic food; first class company and a new start for 2018.

Thanks to Terry for getting the ball rolling!


Cats’ Fur Anger…


That could be me! The technique I adopt is almost identical, though I do have a bit of a problem replicating the Dracula-esque teeth!

But it is, as with cats, all a facade. With your average moggy, there is a hell of a lot less cat underneath the bristling fur, extended claws, death-mask-horror face and punctured-tyre hissing; in fact, said feline is putting on this grim facade in order to scare off the opposition – and, basically, in order to prevent loss of libido, limb or even life!

I’m the same. I fluff myself up very colourfully – and having long russet curls certainly helps in that regard: Just think Crystal Tips! – and, with aggressive blowing up of my outlying regions can, very speedily, look more like a pack of ravenous Valkyries than just the one woman! The loud ululations, sinister clicking and heavy breathing; the narrowed eyes and vermilion-hued visage; the mouth set in a ferocious rictus; the fingers stiffened into deadly spikes; the clouds of steam, even fire, issuing from all orifices – all of this allows me  to appear in Sekhmet’s robes when, behind this lioness-facade, I am probably quaking in my shoes and terrified.

Would I rip out someone’s entrails whilst in Pissed-off Pussy Mode? Probably not! Because, like the domestic kitty, there is a lot less of me underneath the colour, sound and fury!

But, by God, it certainly convinces the cowering onlooker!

Proclivity for Rebellion: On Embracing Sixty


I think many of us assume, when we are young, that we will be chilled and sorted beings by a certain age; that this tremulous and gauzy curtain of adulthood will rise upon a world of perfection and that the mirror image will reveal a flawless character shining through an angelic visage.

I am now in the process of planning my sixtieth birthday party (and, yes, I am going to have one and raise merry hell!) – and, as I do so, I am blitzed by whirling images of the earlier Ali and her unrealistic expectations! You know the kind of thing: ‘By 20/30/40/50, I will be sensible/mature/sober/free from all neurosis/impervious to pain and insult/above it all…’

It staggers me to think about this human tendency, this unassailable urge so many of us feel to try and airbrush out (or hope that we can) all that actually makes us human!

How bloody stupid and what a sodding waste of time and precious energy.

So, and in no particular order, I have always been a worrier – and can remember vividly waking up from terror dreams, in which feathers featured prominently, aged three, and fretting about wetting the bed when I was not much older. Anxiety kicked in early, as did social shyness and psychosomatic illness. An excellent ear for music and a love of words also showed themselves before I was five.

Two weeks before my sixtieth birthday, I can safely say that my tendency to worry remains (and that anxiety is never very far away). Although I make a good fist of being socially adept and can, these days, throw a party without having a nervous breakdown or throwing up, my need to hide from the world when overwhelmed by noise and people is as strong as ever. Music and words are as essential to the nearly-sixty year old Ali as they were to the socially-awkward little Bambi.

I have not ironed out all my problems (and sorry, guys, I refuse to use the word ‘issues’ here) – and, in all probability, never will – but I have managed to control some of the worst of them. My temper, for example: I no longer throw things through windows or hit siblings’ friends on their noses with maracas when in a rit of fealous jage – and I am far less passive-aggressive than I used to be (though this is still a known weakness of mine!).

I am not an angel. I am not a cuddly archetypal granny. I am not smooth and forgiving and calm and passion-free. I have not, as yet, experienced any diminution of my essential life force, nor do I discount an eventual return to the glories of sex and love on the basis of age alone! Why should I?

I am every bit as curious, querulous, difficult, blunt, rude, bawdy and, at times, offensive, as I ever was – and any sliding towards an age-appropriate way of behaving (according to societal mores) is checked immediately with a surly and thoroughly unmannerly, ‘Fuck off!’

It is not that I am afraid of getting older, because I am not; it is more this: I have been a rebel for most of my life and am buggered if I am going to stop just because the Bus Pass is on its way! Sod that! If I were Booby, I daresay I would use the old free charabanc ticket to travel far and wide in search of toothsome young men!

I think niceness and traditional virtues are often both boring and vastly over-rated. Women, in particular, are still controlled by expectations of gentleness and kindness and patience and putting others first. I am capable of all of those – but I can also be a selfish and demanding bitch, a raucous old moo, a gossiping hag and a real ‘Me! Me! Me!’ merchant!

I know plenty of women my age who have given in to grey hair gracefully – and I respect them for it! But, for me, there is still intense joy and delight in being foxy-haired – and, though I would not go as far as dyeing the pelt in the hold to match that on the deck (not with my allergic reactions, my dears!), I will continue to be an unnatural red head for the foreseeable future!

Why do we so often beat ourselves up for not being better? For not conforming to stereotypes dictated by a Patriarchal Society? For believing all this bollocks about how to be a particular age? For still being ‘imperfect’ once we reach, and pass, our notional majority?

Far too often, this drive for improvement flattens the personality, crushes the spirit and turns us all into grey tubes of meat, faceless and characterless.

Human nature is cracked! A splintered and patched mirror! But, as many of us know, the light really does shine through the cracks – and the clarity and rainbow colours produced by shattered prisms of ‘perfection’ are, in their way, far more beautiful and arresting!

Plenty of time to be the epitome of angelic virtues when one is dead!

Embrace sixty? You bet I will! Why not? It’s a new land to explore and I haven’t been there yet! It could be really exciting! Who knows?!

A woman after my own heart, this one! Vulgar old besom – and all the better for being so!

Legend…at getting lost/taking dire photos! HUMOUR!


I am a legend in my own lifetime – when it comes to my total inability to read a map, navigate, avoid getting lost, and my equally embarrassing absence of artistic (or, indeed, ANY!) ability at taking photos and videos!

It all started in Geography lessons when I was at secondary school. I confess I found the subject tedious, not helped by the teacher whose voice was droningly boring even on a good day. Result? I switched off; my map skills are non-existent, and I have to ask for directions every time I point Pep (my car) at an unfamiliar route( as opposed to pointing Percy at the Porcelain). I am the only person I know who can get lost DESPITE owning a Sat Nav.

I did buck up my ideas when I went into the third year (now called year nine) – and took copious notes, wrote excruciatingly neat homework pieces and prided myself upon an exercise book which would have soothed the most extreme Anal Retentive or OCD sufferer! But mappage was, and remains, a closed book to me!

Photography is another of my anti-legend ‘talents’ – though I suppose you could claim a kind of perverted genius in my stunning lack of ability and my inevitable cock-ups when it comes to photographic images. Not for nothing was I booted out of Art classes at the tender age of fourteen, my parents basically being told, ‘We advise Alienora NOT to do this subject at O’level!’ (with, ‘…because she’s an artistic cretin…’ trembling, unspoken, on middle-aged lips!)

When I was in Ghost Weed, I used to take photos of the lads up at Redhill Open Mic – and also attempted to video them playing and singing when I left the band. Struth! Painful doesn’t begin to describe my efforts, though ‘cack-handed’ and ‘fucking useless’ both do!

Bless them, the boys were very diplomatic on the whole – though Neil, who is a professional photographer, must have winced every time a new Ali email dropped its badly-taken load on his laptop!

Part of the problem is that I do not possess a Smart Phone (mine being decidedly remedial/Special Needs), let alone a camera – and my philosophy of point and shoot does not go down well in darkened pubs, clubs and so forth!

Cutting to the current chase: This morning, I had my hair re-oranged and re-sparkled in time for the Solstice Celebrations – and then thought it would be a great idea to take a selfie! Ye gods, you’d have thought I’d have learned by now!

Frankly, all this bollocks about holding the phone in front of one but backwards makes what little technological brain I DO possess pack its bags and bugger off in utter confused despair – and that’s before I even attempt to work out an angle which might, just might, capture my Pre-Raphaelite locks in all their glory (ha bloody ha!). But, you see, Maths is yet another of my Negative Legend Statuses – and the chances of my being able to work out the angle of anything is NIL!

I am sharing these latest failures because laughter is so therapeutic, isn’t it? And, once I had stopped throwing up in disgust at my resemblance to a ginger-wired blobfish, I let out a mighty guffaw (causing Pippa to leap three feet in the air) and thought, ‘Yup! These could easily go down in tale and legend as examples of the very worst of the genre: Yippee!’

Oops! Seem to have beheaded myself!

No forehead and fifteen chins! Christ on a bike!

Cat hair ball?! Fuck knows!

Oh yeah, very clever: The face chopped in half look; I can see that being a winner (NOT!).

Lopped off the chin this time: Genius!

Aha! The old Straight up the Nostrils ploy, most fetching!

Left eye’s gone this time – and I also look as if I have received enthusiastic overtures from a vampire!

See what I mean?

Photographic anti-legend!


Llancynfelyn Memories: Bonneville and Anti-Mate!

The dog, Bonneville, wasn’t overly keen – on the old connubial bliss, I mean. She didn’t go a bundle on long lines of randy males, tongues out and nethers alert (shall we say?), queuing up half way down the road for her seasonal favours. In fact, cowering and whimpering, she gave the impression that she would much prefer it if the whole sex-crazed pack would just bugger-off, vanish without trace, and leave her alone.

Unfortunately, the olfactory evidence of her state of readiness was undeniable – and I was expecting local wolves, foxes and passing Beasts of Bodmin to join the line at any moment.

It was already proving damned embarrassing: The poor farm workers couldn’t move an inch without tripping over a horde of horny hounds, and I could clearly see one of them surreptitiously oiling his gun (though whether he intended to shoot us, the dog, the Blue-balled beggars or himself was hard to work out).

Something had to be done – and fast. We did briefly consider buying a large can of the canine equivalent of Stud Delay – and letting them have it right up the proverbials – but common sense made us see that, by the time we got to the end of the line, the front few would have rediscovered their maimed mojo and gone into Gang Bang Mode.

So, we invested in a vanishing property for the dog herself: Anti Mate, I believe it was called, and we had to spray it liberally on the affected area.

What we were aiming for was twofold: The vanishing of the scent which so aroused the by-now-Guinness-Book-of-Records-sized-Pack – and, the speedy vanishing of the sex-crazed swains themselves, under the wheels of the 10.23 Machynlleth to Aberystwyth Express (which, naturally, took hours!), if that’s what it took!

We sprayed like demons. The stuff smelled repulsive. God knows what it had in it – but I swear I caught more than a passing note of sheep-dip, festering badger and chicken forgotten in the oven for two weeks. Even the dog looked a tad taken aback!

By God it worked, though: It cleared that farmyard (and adjacent road) quicker than sprout-induced flatulence in a bar – and the whole putative leg-over brigade had vanished almost before we could screw the top back on.


Blesséd relief, I can tell you!

The Lure of the YOUNGER Man!

In one significant way (if in no other!), dear Booby Fellatio (now up on BoobTube, as I put it in a rather splendid Freudian Slip to a friend earlier) and I are oceans apart. She (as those of you who have read, or viewed, her will know) lusts after, ‘…a plentiful supply of toothsome young men…a melange of mighty oaks…’ – whereas her redoubtable, orange-haired creator has, with one minor exception, always gone for the OLDER MAN!

My first proper boyfriend was four months my junior – and that’s the closest I have ever got to a Booby-type sexual scenario!

I have absolutely no prejudice on this front – and both know, and admire, many a woman in that hinterland between forty and seventy happily making the beast with two backs with a succession of youthful stallions! Good for them, I say! On the same lines – though not quite so extreme! – all three of my sisters are married to younger blokes!

However, my tastes have, historically – and, quite possibly, hysterically – always tended towards age (though not always maturity!). I probably fancied my father when I was four, or something.

I think another factor in my choice of bed-companion centred around the fact that I was a teacher for so ruddy long – and, therefore, any fresh-faced, light-on-years, chap I had cantered off into an orgasmic sunset with could all too easily have known, or even been (gulp!), an ex-pupil. The very thought was enough to freeze the blood – and, for this reason, I put a lower limit of early fifties (in my mind!) upon any potential conquest even when I was divorced and, thus, free to light the jolly old lamp of lust and ungird my loins (with a crowbar, if necessary!).

Booby, reading over my shoulder (as it were), is sneering away and guffawing wildly.

‘Really, Darling!’ she drawls. ‘Must you be so provincial, so damned narrow-minded? Think of all those gorgeous hunks of tautly-muscled testosterone just going to waste in the narrow beds of drunken tarts, or up a back alley in some plague-pit of a town!’ 

My (to me, very pertinent) points concerning saggage, baggage and wrinkles deeper than the bloody San Andrea Fault count for nowt in her jaded mind.

‘Hoick the GIRLS up as high as you can, without causing concussion!‘ she advises. ‘Pull the overhang in as far as you dare, or embrace Liposuction; wear your own weight in make-up and dress daringly at all times! Most men will be talking to your tits anyway, so why not cut out the Middleman?’


She may have a point, however.

‘Actually, Darling, I’ve got two!’ she cackles.

You see, I have always looked for emotional, intellectual and spiritual connection as well as sexual – and have created a further high-jump for the male population by insisting, somewhat stubbornly I daresay, upon a sense of humour too!

Booby – bless or curse her! – is much more direct in her needs: Under – and preferably WELL under! –  forty (in years), well-blessed (in the Todger Department), gorgeous – and with the stamina of a bull servicing a herd of heifers.

I look at the wondrous specimen Booby insisted I post on here and find myself in a certain amount of turmoil: What, I ask, would one talk about after the Act? Would he be able to read? Write? Would he have any level of Emotional Intelligence?

Booby, licking her lips in prurient anticipation, has no such scruples.

‘Oh, bugger that, Darling!’ she warbles. ‘Just have your wicked way with the blighter and then turf him out! That’s what I do!’

Hmmm! I think she and I may have to agree to differ on this one for the moment.

Do I find the young man above attractive? Ye Gods, yes. But, I could so easily have taught him years ago – and I am old enough, I suspect, to be not just his mother, but probably his grandmother!

‘Nuff said, methinks!

Auntie Booby Fellatio’s Solutions…


Well, darlings!

I nibbled the most scrummy little morsel the other day.  Mind you, and between ourselves, I am not convinced that he was, in the strictest sense, legal. I did ask  -before you leap upon me and threaten me with the Ducking Stool – but you know how very taciturn youth can be, and, when I queried his provenance, this particular one – Gary, for those who really wish to know – muttered into his bum-fluff an indistinct number which ended in the syllable ‘teen‘!

The wonderful thing about young men is their utter and unashamed rampancy! Delectable! Irresistible! They go at it, my dears, like stoats rampaging through the hottest stoatesses – but, of course, it being just little old me, well, need I say more?!

However – and, obviously, this must remain confidential – there are a couple of teensy-weensy little obstacles to overcome when it comes to the sub-twenties. The first is their laughable, and completely mysterious, identification of myself with their mothers (and, in some speedily ejected little toads, their grandmothers) and a correspondingly lamentable need to confide in me as if I were some kind of Agony Aunt (which I quite clearly am not).

Gary, for example – having performed the Splayed Stallion, the Grandfather Clock and that one on Page 448 which most men over thirty claim to be impossible and highly injurious – settled down for a post-bonk fag (as he so indelicately put it) and, I kid you not, a thorough-going whinge about his mother’s overly zealous attempts to control him via a curfew (about which, frankly, I gave not a toss).  I booted the little blighter out pretty damn sharpish when he started to complain about his Chemistry teacher!

Really! I ask you! Do I look like a counsellor?

But do feel free to hold that thought because it leads me very nicely into my second small problem with the inexperienced and dewily young. Their Inter-vaginal Ballistic Missiles (IVBMs), though splendidly wrought and firm to the nth degree, tend to go Boom in mere seconds…

And – let us be brutally frank here, ladies – that last can be a real turn-off: The tendency of the mechanism to go off half-cocked at the first sight of minge can, for any woman anticipating a sexual triathlon, be a bitter disappointment. Gnashing of teeth and rending of Basque are both to be expected at such a moment. As is defenestration of wilting swain from nearest available window!

Many a woman has come to me in absolute despair concerning this little matter, and my tried-and-tested suggestions have, I hope, provided relief in all but the most obdurate cases.

So here, fresh from the lips of Miss Fellatio herself, I give you BOOBY’S TIPS!

The first, and most obvious, ploy is the immediate adoption of the Corpse Pose: Cease all movement up to – and including if necessary – respiration until the missile has stabilized and is, once more, in Long Range Mode.

Secondly, go for Literary or Biblical attack: An ecclesiastically droning voice, allied with a few yards of The Old Testament or, far worse, a chapter of Dickens, tends to discourage most cases of Premature Rocket Launch.

However, there are always those few young blades for whom sterner measures are needed – and, for these, I find the adoption of the Motherly Tone of Voice effective, especially if it is allied with the well-trodden paths of Parental Complaint: Hours of allowed egress and re-entry, state of bedroom, homework completion, rankness of socks, facial pustules – all of the above can be used in order to keep the cork in the bottle until the female part of the equation is ready for an explosive bang and fizz.

Now I must shove off: Helga is pawing at the ground and snorting – and, let’s face it, a really good masseuse is worth two in the topiary.