EDUCATING PERCY...

Here is a comment I found on my blog two days ago:

“Could you send me a crotch shot to put up on my blog? Exploit what
you've got girl, stop being so shy and showing us just your
shoes.

On the one hand, I find this profoundly heartening. There’s nothing a girl loves more than to hear a man begin a sentence with: "Could you...“On the other hand, such a request constitutes an intolerable insult of my character and integrity. Which fact will give you the key to my entire moral constitution.

Needless to say, I've already had to ignore an immense number of e-mails requesting me not to shave, not to mention those from readers who’d like a tour of my pubes. And while my first and greatest debt is of course to Mutleythedog, for the many signs of lascivious attention he’s lavished upon me (and he should not, on that account, consider himself engaged!), I suppose that Percy Stilton who runs Celebrity Blogger & part time Dogger, from the back seat of his Mondeo, might conceivably argue that mine is a toffee-nosed reaction to a request that gives pleasure to millions of bloggers every day. But I can state flatly that his proposition is an object of moral outrage to me, and nothing of late reported by Mrs Stilton over the traditional Sunday Roast at the Robert Peel pub in Pendelton, carries conviction to my mind that Mr Percy Stilton is not simply an out-and-out pervert.

Or take Mick, whom he introduces as Mad Mick - another dedicatee, no doubt, of the words f*** and c*** - who indubitably never reads anything more riveting than the headlines of Percy’s blog. Of him it is rumoured that he sleeps in his car, and that he never changes his underwear. I don’t expect his social circle is very broad. But the interesting thing about this particular individual apparently is, that his girlfriend has let him spunk all over her face in the back of his mini-cab, after which he drove her all the way home and kissed her goodnight.

Now, how cool is that?
Not just the perfect lover, but a gentleman to boot!

And so far as Mick’s pal Blind Billy is concerned, a pallid chain-smoking air traffic controller (“Awight Miss? Av a fag.”) at Barton International Airport (reputedly), I’d wager a large wad of folding money that he was born in a coffin. Fact is, their entire collective demeanour suggests mourning. Percy, Mick and Billy - really quite sad. I shall loosely, and without malice, call them hopeless. To me they definitely look like men on their way down. But to them, individual incentive probably means giving expression to the term that most frequently approximates their own state of mind: “bloody wankers!” Which only goes to prove that our concept of who we are and what we want to be is limited by the language we use, for the only difference in the office where I work, is that most of them are left-handed....

I must therefore, my dear Percy, beg you to excuse me, if, on that account, I am under the necessity of declining access to my crotch for the purpose you propose. And for all those of you who'd yet like to see more of it (or were too polite to ask), why don’t you meet me upskirt, chaps, or indeed, stay down there, for the view if you like...


...your ever indulgent Miss Selena