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You should always keep a few spare vaginas around – just in case

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In light of the fact that I am a woman of no apparent social life beyond the realm of my job, my blog posts these days seem to mostly consist of comedy news items found online or TV reviews.


Yes, I have nothing much to say other than talk about my job, but hey, it’s what I do all day.  I do nothing else therefore have nothing else to talk about.  When I’m not at work, I’m on the PC or watching the box.

Does it make me a loser? 

Yes, probably but… thus far (it could yet happen) I have not resorted to outlandish recreational masturbation or delusional fantasies of an alternate existence in a galaxy far far away in order to feel better about myself.

Anyone who has watched Really or Channel 4 this week will know where I am going with this.


I shall begin with happily stumbling upon a repeat of one of the best TV documentaries ever made, which I caught on Really on Wednesday. 

The brilliant ‘Love Me, Love My Doll’.



Cat? Is that you?

I have blogged about this show in the past but I had forgotten some of the gems.  Worth watching alone for the lines:-

“I’m running out of vaginas”,

“The Swedes have no problem donating pubic hair for money”

and the frankly sinister,

“If I wake up a 3am with a hard-on I can just go grab a doll from the garage. You can’t really do that with a woman.”

Not really pal No.  You could get barred from the all-night Esso for that kind of behaviour my friend.

Ladies I defy you not to wince when one fella scrubs out his favourite doll’s floo with a wire bottle brush, “Because she’s beginning to smell a bit fishy”.



The only thing that could have made this show any more entertaining would have been if that geeky dude had actually taken his doll hang-gliding with him rather than leaving her sat in the car in her best Country Casuals.

Absolute classic!

(BTW anyone know how the sale of pubic hair works?  Does it go by the gram in little baggies like weed or what?  Enquiring minds, with an eye for potential financial gain, need to know.)

Next up was ‘Louis Theroux and the Twlight of the Porn Star’ which was a lot more depressing than it sounded.
It was basically ‘
Boogie Nights’ with less music and no Marky Mark.  Emotional screw-ups and has-beens ahoy.  Also worth a look though, purely for the scene of Louis in the middle of an awkward domestic between a couple who were arguing about whether she should film a scene where, àpropos of no particular reason in the storyline (do you need one?) 5 men would come into the room and jizz on her face!
Boyfriend, understandably wasn’t keen on the idea as he deemed it
“unnecessary” (although he had no problem with her getting fucked every which way till Friday).  She, on the other hand said it could be worth $2K and “possibly win me an award”. 

Now there’s a category I’d like to see on next year’s BAFTAs.  The Linden Tree Jelly Jewellery Award perhaps?


Last night I awaited with eager anticipation, theConfessions of an Alien Abductee’.
How much did I snigger at the Councillor from Whitby (where else?) who claimed to have an alien mother, lover and offspring.  His wife was surprisingly reluctant to be filmed, as she had some issues with the whole thing… 
Funny that!

Personally I was rather more concerned with the fact that someone on the local council had some issues of his own, unrelated to the whole Encounters of the Fourth Kind thing.
When he showed the cameras his alternative family album, crayoned in his own fair hand (strangely no actual photos were forthcoming). I noticed with my Grammar Gestapo eyes, a couple of worrying anomalies.



Surely no beings of such super intelligence would stand for such sloppy English?

No wonder his Mrs didn’t want to be on film!  The shame of a grown man with a supposedly respectable job in local politics not being able to spell.  Tsk Tsk.

If that wasn’t entertainment enough we then had cone-head lady who sounded suspiciously like she was from Derby (go figure).  She recalled a time walking to the Spar and then being distracted by bright lights before finding herself back at her flat with no recollection of the past hour or so. 

I think we’ve all been there Love at some point in our lives, especially if it was the Spar at the Camp in Blacon circa 1992!  Boom Boom!

Christ, how many times a day do you walk into a room and forget what you went in for or realise you’ve done fuck all for the past 2 hours?  Doesn’t mean we’ve been whisked away to Beteljeuse and probed for scientific purposes by little grey dudes in black poloneck jumpers (which is apparently what they wear when they come to take her away!)

Beatnik spacemen with a penchant for jazz perhaps?

Chantelle the cone-head also told us that eating take-out made her very nervous as the ‘Greys’ often tended to appear to whisk her away whenever she ordered a KFC. 

THEY also liked to mess with her before they took her away by, “moving me ornaments and me fags”.

All I could think of was Roger from ‘American Dad’.


I am not saying these people were deliberately lying.  I am quite sure they genuinely believe they have been abducted and if it ever happens to me, you’ll be the first to hear about it.  I’ll even try and get a snapshot so I can Facebook, Twitpic and Instagram that shit soon-as (rather than have to wax crayon a scrapbook for ‘evidence’). 

If that hadn’t been entertaining enough for a Thursday, I also tuned into a show about the creation of a new sex toy, purely at the suggestion of a friend, for this very reason:

Head Buyer for Ann Summers

Head Buyer for Ann Summers

Insert own cock, knob, dick or twat gag here!   LOL

Love you Mr Bman – who gives me all the free rides I need with his actual job  😀

Right I’m turning in for the night now and I’ll be leaving my window open a bit and my door ajar, to make it easier for the Ewoks or Wookies or those little centipede critters from The Host  (great book BTW) to get in and take me away so I can have something other than TV and work to talk about.



About TheDHW

Not loathed by totally everyone so that's good right?

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