Action in rollers

Last night’s Culcha-Club was a rip-roaring, raging success. We all emerged more enlightened free-thinkers after sampling the delights of ‘Pussy cat got wet!!’ (stir fried chicken), ‘Thai Me Any Way You Want’ (prawn salad) and ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’ (deep-fried Morning Glory … yum). I will let King K fill in the blanks as he so eloquently did in this morning’s post.

In Kotters’s words, it was ‘a barrel’.

The sound of my alarm this morning stirred up latent thoughts of suicide. It has one up on the Oirishman for Irritant of the Century. Being woken up forcibly by incessant clanging has never been one of life’s pleasures. Most mornings, I am a cow.

Excuse me, I am being disgustingly rude. I am probably offending the Suffragettes … Yes, thanks girls, I am grateful for the fact that I don’t need to have a full face of makeup applied and my hair in rollers once my dear husband, the stirrings in his loins successfully seen to, has fallen asleep. Failure to look permanently hot and put out in silence: supreme neglect of one’s marriage vows. Have a gander at this 1960’s women’s guide to bedroom behaviour. It’s a gas.



According to Cosmo’s forerunner, should your man experience a particularly violent loin-stirring, (suggesting “any of the more unusual practices” perhaps), you should “be obedient and uncomplaining but register any reluctance by remaining silent”. Sounds like a guest appearance by the Fun Burglar.