Buttfuckery: not all it is cracked up to be, apparently

Aww. Bless. I wonder if he still has Preparation H round his rim?

The recent online campaign by Ms. Sinead O'Connor to reignite her moribund public image find herself a loving partner willing to indulge her in her preference for anal penetraton reached its logical conclusion recently, with her betrothal for the fourth time to a Mr. Barry Herridge, who was often described using the prefix "therapist".

Sadly, it seems, for Ms. O'Connor, this referred to his profession, and not to his proclivities; had he, indeed, been "the rapist" he may well have had his evil, wicked way, slapped her about a bit,  popped her into the boot of his car and dumped her into a lake, tied up in a roll of carpet.

I am aware that this premise may seem unnecessarily harsh to the more sensitive readers of this strand; but at least it would have spared all and sundry the fuss surrounding the inevitable conclusion to their relationship, a split after just seven days, and lots and lots of media attention garnered just in time for pre-release publicity for her forthcoming album. Which, I am sure, will be great. Or will grate. One of the two.

Do others wish she would just fuck off, leave us all alone, and go and play with her Lambretta-powered vibrator?

The end of Movember

This "mo bro's" particular "style" earned a lot of opprobrium in Golders Green;  not many fans of Mr. Charlie Chaplin in the locale, it seems...

Today marks the first day of December; and the first thing that one should do (after saying "white rabbits", of course) is to contact any friends, relatives and acquaintances with recently-cultivated tonsorial growth and issued the following edict:

"You've had your fun, now shave the fucking thing off because you look like a twat."

It sounds cruel; but ultimately, it is kind. I have witnessed some horrific sights over the last 30 days, and not all of them involved cyclists in collision with left-turning heavy goods vehicles. They may, obviously, point to your lack of support for their chosen cause; if they so do, then please furnish them with a suitably generous donation. It is, after all, a worthy cause; 1 in 9 men suffer from prostate cancer in their lifetime and around 10,000 men a year succumb to it.

With this kind of insidious condition, I find prevention to be better than cure; so, the next time your partner walks into the house to find you masturbating furiously, point her (or him, we're a broad church on here) to this piece of research and inform them that you are simply trying to avoid premature death, and that they should be grateful that you have their interests at heart. Then have them pop a digit up your fundament to, erm, "check for tell-tale swelling".

The stockings and suspenders you are wearing, the amyl nitrate-soaked orange in your mouth and the "specialist interest" sites you have visited on your laptop may be rather more difficult to attribute any beneficial medical effect to, but I am sure that you could conjure up something suitably plausible.

Do others feel that hairy palms are somewhat more aesthetically acceptable in modern-day society than hairy faces?