A LETTER TO THE COLONEL

   

Commanding Officer

Commando Training Centre Royal Marines

Lympstone, Devon, UK

EX8 5AR.                                                                                  

Dear Colonel,

Seldom does the conduct of a man who has consumed too much alcohol appease my sense of humour. Bar watching him struggle to maintain his balance as he staggers out of a takeaway, listing over into a steep tilt then slamming down hard onto the asphalt before feral seagulls swiftly close in to brutally snatch the spoils of his cheesy chips in a macabre feeding frenzy. As a general rule, I find most drunks either boring or crass.

Having said that, as a former Royal Marine myself, serving with both 45 and 40 Commando Units, it is always a pleasure when trained ranks and recruits from Lympstone visit Torquay and come into the harbourside pub where I work as a part time doorman, because the anticipation of not knowing what might happen makes an otherwise regular night just that slightly more, shall we say, interesting.

For example, when I worked on the doors in Taunton a few years ago, I remember clearly a concerned manager asking me to deal with a group of marines who had opened several dozen hot mustard sachets and smeared the entire contents over their genitals in a bizarre kind of contest.

Another time when I was working in Plymouth, I had to physically stop a marine from eating a potted plant that was located on the bar counter just next to the till, frightening the bar staff.

Unfortunately, most civilian managers and staff who work in Britain’s pubs and clubs today do not either understand or share the unique blend of satire and wit that bootnecks past or present are well renowned for.

Because in a more recent incident requiring more than the usual suspension of disbelief prompting me to write you this letter, I was left with no alternative but to ask a group of marine recruits to leave the premises when one of them stood upon a chair, unzipped his jeans and shoved his cock into the pub parrot's cage nearly sending poor Jack who has lived there happily for the last two years into a state of cardiac arrest.

And whilst I personally was able to refrain 'too obviously' from grinning, other members of staff were less able to contain their disgust and viewed this young man’s behaviour as a deliberate act of deviant perversion against a defenceless bird. The pub’s owner later informed me that Jack was quite emotionally traumatised by this event along also with many of the pub’s customers, who happened to be watching at the time.

Perhaps though, what makes this incident particularly more poignant, especially for those who know Jack well, is that in his zest for repartee, forging new friendships using his staggering vocabulary of words, I suspect this will be one story in Jack’s life, that he will not be heard repeating.

As an ex-marine, I get no pleasure whatsoever when the owner of a pub or club asks me to eject a marine from their premises, particularly for reasons that usually always amount to nothing more than a jolly good jape, and consequently I always find myself arguing in favour of the accused. It is for this reason that I insist on always wearing my Commando Dagger tie pin so that it may be recognised by any serving rank who happens to walk through the door thus sanctioning an almost instantaneous mutual social bond based entirely on my understanding of the Royal Marine psyche.

In my capacity then as a marine friendly night-club bouncer, perhaps you will kindly permit me to enclose with this letter a printed directive entitled ‘6 Points to consider when on a run-ashore in Torquay’ offering some excellent advice to all those recruits who are planning to paint the town red so that a complete pub blanket ban can be avoided. This was very nearly the case in Exeter and I would be very dismayed to see this happen in Torquay.

 

Thanking you kindly sir, for your time and consideration.

Lazz Hewings

 

THY SHALT NOT GET CAUGHT COMMITTING ADULTERY

 The chain of wedlock is so heavy it takes two to carry it, sometimes three.

Alexandre Dumas 1803-1870

I was still reeling from the shock of seeing a bearded, middle aged man, wearing a T-shirt that read, 'I eat pussy like fat kids eat cake', when I was informed by a customer that odd noises could be heard coming from inside the ladies toilets.

A couple aged in their late 20's and in a state of undress, were having sex in one of the cubicles. So, after pressing my ear against the door for a short while, I waited until their rhythmic thrusting reached a crescendo then banged hard on the door telling them to stop what they were doing and kindly leave the premises.

Now normally, this kind of conduct isn't too uncommon in some of pubs, particularly at weekends, but what made this particular incident require more than the usual suspension of disbelief, was because while the man made a rather embarrassed and hasty exit from the pub, the woman walked brazenly back into the bar area and calmly sat down . . . next to her husband.

Now at the time, I felt sorry for him because he looked a decent sort of chap, and it occurred to me that the last thing he needed right now was to be humiliated in a pub full of drunken people, so on this occasion, I decided not to pursue the matter any further. However my conscience later nagged me on for not telling him what his wife had been up to. 

But let's be honest, it can only be a matter of time before her appetite for impromptu sex romps with strangers betrays her, if it hasn’t already, and when it does, I hope the poor bloke finds out discreetly as a result of his own subtle suspicions, rather than seeing dodgy photos of his wife on Facebook or reading another man’s crude exposé with his wife’s mobile number, scrawled on the toilet wall at his place of work.

And so whether or not the husband found out exactly what happened that day, I'm afraid I cannot tell you because I don’t know and anyway, it makes no difference to the point I am trying to make, so let me cut straight to the chase.

The fact is, in these modern times, while Love still embodies loyalty, commitment and red roses, Lust on the other hand is interested only in satisfying it’s own deviant urges and habitually achieves this rather skillfully by guile.

Infidelity has become the scourge of modern society driven by a tsunami of cultural change drowning us in the sexualization of young girls, inappropriate subliminal allusions and erotic imagery, all peddled so methodically by the mass media - specifically the medium of television, that now accounts for having the biggest influence on our lives in the entire western world, second only to religion.   

In all my years working in hospitality either as a pub landlord and more recently as a doorman, I have encountered extra marital sex on such an astonishing and unbelievable scale that I have sadly come to feel and with good reason too, that the probability of absolute true loyalty and dependability existing in any relationship, surely is about as likely as a giraffe balloon sculpture winning next years Turner Prize.

We’re told that the most common reasons for infidelity given by straying spouses are sexual frustration, curiosity, boredom and revenge, with the third person usually turning out to be either a friend, associate or somebody we know.

Personally, I suspect that for every one person careless enough to be caught cheating behind a partners back, there are probably another five or so interactions carrying on who's participants are simply far too cunning and devious ever to be found out.

Such is the power of lust that precedes an affair and the immeasurable devastation generated by exposure, the absolute genius and brilliance of subterfuge employed in the pursuit of deceiving a loved ones, is unparalleled to that of a close up magician who with unfailing sangfroid, can deal a royal flush from a shuffled deck of cards.

Our pair bonding ritual used to take place over a period of weeks or even months when genuine courtship was about respect, chivalry and doorstep kisses.

But today, a man and a woman who have never before set eyes on each other can strike up a conversation during happy hour and by the time last orders have been called, their brief courtship has already been consummated over a stack of rattling beer crates in the back yard with a post coaxial cigarette smoked together out on the front pavement. It gives a totally new meaning to the term speed dating.

Unfortunately however, it's human nature to want more than one sexual partner, especially after so many years of living together. It's a survival trait in all of us allowing us to replace either the hunter-gatherer or the child bearer, lost by a sudden death. It's this default genetic program that helps sustain the ongoing survival of our species.

In fact Stamford University did a study which showed physical chemistry has a shelf life today of just nineteen months showing that society forces 'happily ever after' on us when biologically we're programmed to cope with multiple partners. You can't fight nature.

And if you read Professor Jared Diamond's book, Why is Sex Fun? It explains the link between promiscuity, natural selection and concealed ovulation.

He teaches us how evolutionary forces have shaped our sexuality and how concealed ovulation and sexual receptivity in women today, make possible our unique combination of marriage, co-parenting and adulterous temptation. Albeit, we are a long way from perfection but then isn’t that precisely what evolution is all about?

It has been said that the advance of civilization has not so much moulded modern sexual behaviour, as that modern sexual behaviour has moulded the shape of civilization.

Anthropologists suggest that recreational sex is supposed to be the glue that bonds a couple together while they cooperate in raising children, but as we all know even the strongest glue weakens under too much pressure.

When you consider that the 2010 mid year statistics for PaternityLab.co.uk revealed that 1 in 3 DNA tests carried out by them proved negative. In other words - 34.55% of men tested (those who had reason to) were found not to be the biological father. Perhaps then it's only logical that paternity home kits have finally become available to buy over the counter in Boots.

To put things into perspective then, let’s get one thing straight - we are not robots that can be controlled by encoded robotic programming. We are flesh, blood and bone human beings, created by a miracle of nature and graced with feelings and emotions that determine our very own unique and exclusive psyche, ultimately administered and maintained by the awesome power of our brains.

Inside each of our brains there are 100 billion neuron cells that are responsible for sending out signals. And, each one of these 100 billion cells connect independently to another 25 thousand cells, constantly processing information in ever changing relationships. And with all these cells working together, our brains have so far evolved with the capability of making more connections than there are atoms in the entire universe.

Because of this, each and every one of us is unique among all the people who have ever lived on earth. In fact scientists propose that we each have a virtually limitless array of complex emotions that dictate what someone feels at any given time, depending on the thinking experience and memory of the individual. And for this reason alone, no two people can ever be ‘made for each other’ as we like to believe.

Our unique minds are so extraordinarily unpredictable, unexplored and mysteriously deep. To understand exactly how it functions and controls each and every thing we do, would be like claiming to comprehend and understand every single thing there is to know about our entire solar system.

I’m not saying that every person in a relationship has been cheated on. That would be a ridiculous statement to make! I’m merely saying that no matter how strong sexual relations are between a couple in a relationship, if other aspects of mutual interest and compatibility that binds two people together are put in jeopardy then on average, most relationships will not sustain much longer than about two years at the most without one or the other falling out of love through boredom, frustration, curiosity or revenge.

Even the mightiest monumental architectural structure can be bought down by subsidence that starts with a tiny crack.

When a link in the chain of love that joins two people together, becomes weakened by say, too much time apart, a failure in communication or maybe just another volatile domestic argument, then consider the following; when you take into consideration the complexities of the emotional switchboard inside our brain, that part of us that controls our fear, love, pain, hate, anger, elation, greed, envy, shame and lust, to name just a few, and then interact these emotions with other powerful forces such as anger, memory, temptation, curiosity, jealousy and motivation etc. All that’s needed then are some powerful external influences such as alcohol, drugs, companionship, pheromones and sexual imagery. Then just stand back and see what happens.

I reckon that even way back in the Jurassic period, cohabiting cave-couples got bored with each other and on occasions, played away from home. With no recreational activities to partake in other than drawing animal doodles on cave walls and with conversation limited to nothing but endless meaningless grunts, presumably then, sex was the only other way of passing time with your partner and understandably became rather dull and repetitive.

So please forgive me for being lewd, in this, my closing paragraph, but I can't help wondering how many hard working cave-men returned home from hunting unexpectedly early, due to say, an injury sustained wrestling with a mammoth, only to walk in and find his woman giving a blowjob to the good looking man who lives in the cave next door.

  

 

THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL - PART 2

 “There are 193 species of monkeys and apes, 192 of them are covered with hair. The exception is a naked ape self-named Homo sapiens.”        Desmond Morris

Let's suppose that an incredibly superior race of extraterrestrials have been observing our earth since way back in the last millennium.

Now finally, regarding us in such high esteem in terms of our evolvement from tree climbing monkeys to modern day homo sapiens, they decide to visit our planet with the sole purpose of forging an intergalactic alliance that’s considered necessary for the long term continued survival of both of our planets.

And just imagine if they were to bring along with them the wisdom and knowledge that would enable us to solve problems that for years, has baffled our most prominent doctors, scientists and astrophysicists.

They may even be able to show us how it's feasible for the concept of utopia and humankind to co-exist. To live in a world devoid of war, famine, illness and crime as perhaps they have already been doing for hundreds or thousands of years.

And so after many years preparing their finest crew together with a specially elected body of alien beings chosen to represent the ethos of their distant planet, they dispatch a spaceship on a treacherous mission travelling millions of light years through deep space crossing distant galaxies, to visit our earth.

Then finally one day, after perhaps many months travelling in a means of transportation and at a velocity we can’t even begin to understand, they enter our earth’s atmosphere and with trepidation, make a slow and momentous decent before finally touching down onto the surface of our earth.

But then . . . wouldn’t it be a damn pity if their spaceship arrived late one night on a bank holiday weekend and instead of landing say, in Parliament Square or at the White House, they landed instead in a typical English town beset with bars, takeaways, racial tension and all the other lowbrow cultural trappings that now mire this once great country.

Hypothetically speaking then, let us assume that they land somewhere like Torquay, Exeter or Plymouth.

Can we even begin to imagine the depravity, degradation and decline that would welcome our visitors when they gather together for the first time on the observation deck and take a look out through the window?

 

Just picture it … a dazzling array of pulsating blue lights illuminating the hundreds of unruly drink and drug crazed revellers that can pack one stretch of road at any one time.

Groups of police officers, some carrying Tazer electroshock guns, CS gas spray and batons, would be strategically positioned as they usually are at weekends, in an authoritative exhibition of totalitarian might in opposition against the unrelenting violence and lawlessness that spills out from our pubs and clubs and onto our streets each and every weekend.

One officer can be seen pulling back hard on a rope restraining a ferocious alsatian from leaping up and pulling away, eager to chase and bring someone down using it’s jaws as it was trained to do. While high up, sophisticated and powerful robotic cameras menacingly rotate, roaming up and down the street, searching.

Suddenly outside a bar, a brawl erupts between two mixed gender groups. And in typically traditional British fashion, verbal profanities accompanied by a series of goading and aggressive hand gestures are exchanged in a duel tribal display of urban pre-battle foreplay.

A women, barefoot with a tattoo inked across her lower back just above where her thong cuts into her flab, curls her tongue and dispatches a thick green gob planting it on the asphalt just forward of the opposing group. And while clutching a fag in one hand and a shoe in her other, she yells the familiar battle cry often heard today in modern suburbia, “LET’S FUCKIN ‘AVE IT!”  and dashes forward and hammers the pointed heel of her shoe down hard into a man's head. The ensuing blood that flows from the entry wound signals to all the others for battle to commence.

Within seconds, strangers gather around like children at a playtime scrap and in all their excitement, takeaway polystyrene containers spill food over the pavement as they hastily pack as much as they can into their already gorged mouths.

Others, those who are so completely wankered that they can't even coordinate the movement of their own legs, somehow manage to advance forward in unhurried stages by dragging one foot at a time. And with their vacant eyes, gaping mouths and heads listing over to one side, they resemble film extras from Dawn of the Dead.

Meanwhile, just a little further down the road a young woman squats in a shop doorway while steaming urine cuts a path across the pavement into the gutter and her friend stands next to her clinging onto a wheelie bin and lowering her head, waiting, in anticipation for the inevitable stomach convulsions that always precede the thick surge of rancid vomit that dispenses so vehemently making that well defined splashing sound that we’re all familiar with.

By this time, the mission commander will no doubt be wondering just where the hell they have landed. Did his navigator make a serious error? He’d ask himself. But continuing with his assignment, I wonder how quickly his enthusiasm would diminish when, with his entire crew watching through the window and with  live coverage being transmitted back to his own mission control, he climbs out through the departure hatch and as he slowly descends the exit ramp, he inadvertently steps on a portion of cheesy chips, thrown moments earlier by a passing drunk.

The ensuing skid snatches his legs away quickly initiating a gangling looking backward flip and he frantically reaches out with both hands to grab hold of anything he can in a desperate yet futile attempt to save himself from falling. And as he disappears over the edge, a scream, stifled noticeably by his thick space-suit, can be heard trailing behind as he plummets to the ground landing heavily with an unforgiving thud and startling a young man squatting down just a few feet away behind the ship’s landing gear, having a number two.

Nearby, un-phased by all this commotion, seagulls squabble viciously over a kebab scattered over the road while the man who intended to eat it, sleeps soundly across the car bonnet where he fell.

If then after all of this, the commander then feels compelled to run back into the spaceship crying, "Abort mission” and blasting-off back into deep space, then in all honesty, could we really blame him? This being the case, to lose the opportunity of benefiting from the knowledge and experience of a race far more advanced and  superior than us, would be nothing short of catastrophic.

Our only slight hope for salvation would be if by some slim chance, just one of their crew would notice amid this shameful exhibition of hedonism and social decadence, the holidaying family of four, who after an enjoyable evening now find themselves, caught up in this terrorizing situation.

With the parents having no option but to walk with their two young children through this ominous gathering of human garbage, the children’s faces who only moments earlier looked so joyful now look desperately frightened so mum and dad lovingly and reassuringly lift them up pulling them in close.  

Having detected the children’s fear and realised the true extent of their parents alarm and apprehension, perhaps only then when the aliens realise that not all people on earth are repugnant as first appears, will they mercifully choose to stay and help us rather than flee wrongfully mistaking us to be a race unworthy of salvation.

And if within their successfully proven agenda of race development and survival this includes firstly a cull, a procedure we already use successfully when our cows go bonkers, followed then by implementing a long term reproductive programme based on the contentious philosophy of eugenics, then personally, I have no problem with this whatsoever.

Renowned physicist and award winning science writer John Gribbon, put the human race into perspective using the following analogy. If you can imagine shrinking the entire 4.5 billion year history of the earth, into a single 24 hour day, even the dinosaurs wouldn’t show up until 11 o’clock at night. And they would be wiped out twenty minutes before midnight. Humans wouldn’t appear until just two seconds before midnight and all of recorded history, right back to the pyramids, would take place in the last tenth of a second.

So then, taking this into consideration, as a species still so young in terms of evolutionary advancement, when you consider the enormity and seriousness of the problems and the mess we have created for ourselves as a consequence of our hedonistic, deviant lifestyles, I guess it’s safe to say we have pretty well fudged things up already. Perhaps God’s biggest boo boo was when he fitted us with oversized brains because it wasn’t long after this when we climbed down from the trees, learned to walk upright and no doubt had our first cave party.

A graffiti artist is reputed to have once sprayed on a wall, ‘God is alive – but working on a less ambitious project’ and who knows, perhaps this is the case. But I suspect if the truth were known, God is gnashing his teeth for taking that seventh day off to play golf instead of staying put and completing the job properly. I’ve heard he hung up his cloak a while ago before coming down here to live with the rest of us on earth and buying a timeshare on the Algarve. Apparently he rides a Harley Davidson and spends his time drinking Jack Daniels, playing the banjo and penning obstinate letters about ‘what should have been” to newspapers.

“We are, to put it mildly, in a mess, and there is a strong chance that we shall have exterminated ourselves by the end of the century. Our only consolation will have to be that, as a species, we have had an exciting term of office.”

Desmond Morris

ADDITIONAL NOTE:

A study on the popular Caribbean island of St Kitts in which alcohol was given to monkeys revealed startling similarities between the ways in which humans and small primate react to alcohol.

The study involving one thousand green Vervet monkeys showed that the vast majority drank moderately by stealing alcoholic beverages from the thousands of holidaymakers who visit the beach bars every day. Also, the monkeys prefered to have their alcohol diluted with fruit juice and enjoy drinkng only in the company of other monkeys who are also drinking (and never before lunch). Around 15% drank heavily and frequently, preferring their booze as strong as possible, while roughly the same percentage either sustained or hardly drank at all. And about 5 % turned out to be binge drinkers, knocking it back as fast as possible, getting into fights and then passing out.

MISS XXXL AND HER £200 SHOES

Just recently, I had reason to stop and ask a young woman for proof of her age before I would allow her into the venue where I work as a doorman at weekends.

At the time, storm clouds had been lashing it down for quite some time and doing a blinding job too, flushing away the urine and chunder that trickled out from shop doorways while nearby, un-suitably dressed night revellers skirmished for cover like troops, tactically advancing in a hostile, built up area.

The young woman, who at first appeared somewhat thickset as she approached from a distance but was in fact enormously obese as she stood before me, looked utterly miserable as the unremitting rain pummelled down intensely upon her generous exterior. Trembling with cold, her drenched hair had separated into tufts that stuck tight against her forehead then continued down slightly obscuring her eyes and over her face where by this time, black eyeliner had inked thick wavering trails down and over each of her cheeks joining together under her chin forming a large globule, where it hung poised and ready to drip onto her white tee-shirt.

She was visibly desperate to be allowed in and I was thankful for her lack of complaint as it took me perhaps longer than usual in the deficient light to read the small print on her driving licence. In fact it was only when I stopped to take a sip of my coffee when her patience expired and she let rip. ‘Fuckin ‘ell mate!’, she screamed at me, ‘I’m nineteen! . . . let me in will ya? I’m freezing an gettin' fuckin soaked out ‘ere and I paid two hundred quid for these fuckin' shoes and now they’re getting fuckin ruined! . . . fuckin let us in will ya!!!’

As it transpired, the young lady was indeed nearly twenty years old and that's when it occurred to me how foolish I must have been, to have even doubted for one moment that she could possibly had been any younger?

Surely, it would require at least eighteen years existing on pizzas, burgers and cake shop lock-ins to actually balloon to such an immense size in the first place. There was just no way she could have been so fat and still been under eighteen years old.

I wondered however why she wore so little clothes. With no coat for protection, she’d come out wearing just a white tee-shirt and a pair of dark leggings not quite concealing a thong strap, while her stomach resembled a tsunami of doughy flesh rolling out and then sort of flopping down and folding back in under it's own dense mass of solidified industrial chip fat. Her entire midriff was a repugnant exhibition of human grossness of the worst kind and I decided to name her, 'Miss XXXL'.

I nodded her in and as she did, she nudged me, engaging me to turn and glance just one more time at her entire sodden wretchedness as she floundered through the inner door and into the bar area where she paused momentarily, presumably to look for her friends. Then, just as I was turning away, something prompted me to stop and look back and when I did, I found myself transfixed, open mouthed and in unmitigated awe, at the steam that was rising upwards from off her back. Just like it does on horses.

By now, this brief encounter had stirred up an extraordinary and curious fascination within me and I became mesmerised by her presence, like a marine biologist might feel seeing a Humpback Whale for the first time.

She was undoubtedly I felt, a worthy topic for debate. Perfect subject matter either for an after dinner discussion or just some lively banter with mates down the boozer over a couple of light ales. Nonetheless, at that moment in time, the deeper I probed, the more of an enigma Miss XXXL became. And I needed closure.

I’ve always been amazed how the laws of physics make it achievable for the applied body mass and weight of an abnormally fat woman wearing high shoes with pencil thin heels, to be supported and balanced during the actual mechanics of walking. Surely in the case of Miss XXXL, the heels should have snapped off when she first tried them on in the shop?

So when I researched deeper into this phenomenon I was surprised to find that physicists had already beaten me to it. By using computations and theoretical physics, they determined that a normal 110lb woman wearing stiletto high heels exerts more pressure on the ground than a 6000lb elephant. This being so, what would they determine the psi of concentrated pressure to be that emitted from the tiny surface areas of Miss XXXL’s shoe heels? And furthermore, imagine the outcome had she for some reason turned hostile knocking me to the ground and then jumping on me.

Based on the extraordinary physics involved, the next time I see a fat woman wearing high heels I'm going to feel almost obliged to walk up to her and shake her hand, slap her on the back and say 'Bloody well done, Miss!'

But without getting too carried away into the realms of scientific investigation, I suppose the first thing that immediately struck me about her, was how a woman like this could possibly feel justified wearing what she did in a public domain? And why would she choose to spend two hundred pounds on a pair of shoes? Isn’t this just completely and utterly pointless . . . like furnishing an outside yard toilet with flock wallpaper and deep pile carpet?

Another interesting thing I found out was that the average increase in the protrusion of a woman’s buttocks is 25% when she wears high heels. So why would any woman with a fat arse wish to embellish and draw attention to an already existing blight?

I don't mean to sound spiteful and malicious in sharing this

anecdote with you and I apologize if I come across in this tone. I am merely expressing my honest opinions by using words in the same cavalier manner as indeed Miss XXXL chose to dress that very evening.

And anyway, It is often considered that a hard hitting approach can often help raise awareness more speedily, in this case, of the cultural dissimilarities that almost paradoxically co-exist on the same social platform.

By observing and taking note of how other people choose to dress and behave, we can perhaps benefit ourselves by developing a far deeper awareness and understanding of how - the image a person has of themselves - more often than not is nothing remotely like the image other people see. Much the same as how we think we sound when we talk and then we hear ourselves on a recording and think, 'Oh my God . . . Do I really sound like that?'

Possibly the only real enjoyment I get in my capacity as a doorman is in observing the individual and tribal social behaviour of night revellers, particularly on the basis that - like it or not, we are all primarily judged by others according to how we present ourselves.    

Presumably then it was this ideology that inspired the quotation; ‘If you dress poorly people will notice the clothes, but if you dress sharp, people will notice the person inside’.

Maybe if Miss XXXL had been familiar with this saying, she could have saved herself two hundred quid and used the money to buy a decent sized overcoat to cover herself up and still had enough money left for a large kebab or two . . . or three . . .

A BAD FLY DAY

Due to the extraordinary amount of flies around this year and my failure to kill them with hair spray because I cannot stand the smell of fly spray, I purchased from a local store one of those mains voltage UV super electric fly zappers and hurried home to connect it up in my kitchen.

The instructions said that in order to encourage more flies into the trap, it would help if I were to place a tiny bit of meat or fish as bait inside the trap and so this is what I did, using a tiny piece of tuna.

I then went about my business waiting excitedly to hear the ZZZZZT! sound of my first fly being fried but after 24 hours I had heard nothing and when I checked inside the trap it remained empty. I was very disappointed.

Then, later that same afternoon after I’d come home from shopping, I couldn’t help myself from sliding the tray out to do a body count and YES – there it was, my first dead fly.

But then suddenly to my utter astonishment, the cheeky little sod stood up and started eating the tuna and need I say, I was pretty gutted and to date I’ve only caught about eight ruddy flies and a few moths.

So I’m thinking of getting rid of the device and buying instead, one of those lizards that catch insects with their long elastic sticky tongues. The only problem of course is it's tongue would leave dozens of tiny little round damp patches all over my walls, the furniture and the television screen. And god forbid every time a fly should land on my forehead - I’d find myself suddenly locking eyes with Larry the lizard giving me the death stare from across the other side of the sitting room.

Oh sod it. Perhaps I’ll just start using a fly spray like everybody else.

Lazz

TOOTHLESS IN TORQUAY

A stock-take recently undertaken by my dentist has revealed I have a substantial deficit of teeth, well below the average two dozen and eight. Consequently, he has argued that it would be better for me if I gave up working as a pub Bouncer, and ate more sweets instead. Allow me to explain . . .

Most of us periodically overstep the boundaries of accountability and reason and do things completely irrational. For example; by patting a dog when it’s glazed eyes and snarl imply not to, eating a phaal curry the evening before a long journey or perhaps plunging our fingers into a mug of scolding tea to retrieve a broken biscuit.

Most people would consider these behavioural oddities to be imperfections. But actually, it is these little gems of harmless peculiarities that allure a person with a curious charm whilst arousing our passion for the eccentric and those who opt to be contrary by nature.

But with over ten years experience as a publican in London, and now as a licensed door supervisor in the south west, the boundary that particularly concerns me, is the fine red line between moderate recreational drinking and our almost culturally obligatory, excessive consumption of alcohol with the sole intention of getting completely pickled.

I have seen this descent into oblivion achieved in less than ninety minutes and it’s generally accompanied by a speedy decline of standard bodily functions such as balance, oral communication and urinary procedural etiquette until finally, culmination occurs on a euphoric plateau of non compos mentis.

Rightly or wrongly, integrity and disposition is generally presumed by others according to our chosen vocation, much the same as we are judged by sartorial and postcode variations. But this studious ability of ours to cold read another person, is far more effective when we haven’t left all our marbles at the bottom of a beer glass.

I refer to all the individuals whom at weekends, far too fuddled to consider my personal history in terms of education, military operational theatre or moral compass bearing, belligerently presume to know absolutely everything about me, simply because my job title describes me as a Bouncer.

Evidently, they say, I must have been bullied at school before flunking my exams and then having reached the glass ceiling in my daytime workplace, pursue a sexual omnipotence by adopting the sartorial ethos of a club doorman.

With booze being the major contributor in more than half of violent crimes including a third of all domestic violence, I suspect that when Mr Blair relaxed our licensing laws in 2005 giving us more flexibility, his think tank neglected to point out that the British drinking culture, unlike other European countries, still remains pretty much on par with how the Vikings preferred to shindig, way back in the tenth century.

Furthermore, our criminal justice system with an annual expenditure of £17 billion fails miserably, in proportion to say, drink driving, in adequately punishing offenders who’s idea of recreational activity is getting blind drunk and knocking out somebody’s hamstead heath.

Consequently, It’s rather ironic that in this 21st century of progressive development, our hospitality industry relies entirely on the security industry in order to subsist giving people like myself the opportunity for employment.

Presumably, anti social behaviour was a problem even back in the Jurassic period judging by their cave graffiti still evident today, where no doubt boorish cavemen with shaved heads carrying big clubs would impress girls at cave-raves with exaggerated hunting anecdotes before later being ejected from the premises for lewd behaviour.

The next time you listen to a ‘God’s honest truth!’ story in a bar, remember that people once believed the earth to be flat until somebody took the time to check. Now today in modern society, ‘flat earth news’ and Britain’s pubs are as inseparable as beer and Britannia.

Geographically, social structures differ, but characteristically prominent in small towns like Exeter and Torquay, is the big fish, small pond syndrome.

Affecting people who like to emphasize their superiority over others, they are compelled to compete for reputation and tribal status, attracting sycophants who tag along in awe opting for the far simpler ‘reputation by association’ methodology.

This bizarre behaviour mirrors the almost symbiotic relationship that co-exists when a pilot fish lends itself as a shark’s flunky in return for protection, and this phenomenon is fascinating to scrutinize in some of Devon's community pubs.

When violence normally occurs in a pub, it generally transpires in the form of a shallow glow of petulance, then falters, but smoulders on for a long time like the blue touch paper on a substandard rocket on November 5th.

Then suddenly and without any warning whatsoever, a colourful explosion of dialogue and aggression launches into an unprecedented display of rage. And mayhem ensues as customers either scatter from harms way, or scramble for the best view point.

And it is these violent rages that can be instigated by something as trivial as calling ‘time at the bar’, as was the reason several of my best teeth were kicked out only a few years ago, and not, as I overheard a hospital porter suggest to his mate as I was waiting in casualty, because I was 'probably crawling around the pub floor looking for dropped money and was accidentally kneed in the face by a customer'.

Taking into consideration then, A. Our failure as a nation to preside over discipline. B. The world resources to population ratio, and C. The survival of our species. I predict a point in time many years ahead, when the common man with a dubious genealogy putting them in a high risk category, implying them to be a threat to other people or of no use in our society, shall be considered surplus to requirement.

And this shall give cause for government think tanks to probe deep into the ethical quandary of eugenics as a necessary and sustainable development programme for the survival of mankind.

I won’t be around then, so my immediate concern right now is should I focus my immediate attention on commissioning further dental reconstruction, only to risk my teeth being promptly removed soon afterwards, or do I heed the advice of my dentist and quit bouncing, buy a puffy shirt, and pursue a career as a lounge pianist instead.

A QUESTION OF PEACHY OR POONTANG?

Often spoken, are brutal vulgar weapons of verbal expression that can sting more than an unsolicited bottom slap, haemorrhaging a woman of all her virtues and vilifying the very core of her soul with a perpetual, irrevocable deep wound.

These gaudy and offensive nouns are generally allocated with malice and very often in jest, but either way, the outcome always remains noxious and is generally aimed at those women who at social events, prefer to dress sparingly, or in the vein of poontang.

Once expressed, these slurs can subsist indefinitely feeding on the sartorial ignorance of the host carrier and often, many of the young dim-witted girls we see and hear at weekends in pubs, loud, vulgar and flashing their tits, bear the same slur as their mothers did, or still do.

It’s rather concerning, how modern culture changes over recent years have almost moulded young women today to feel that it’s almost necessary to show as much of their breasts as possible along with other sacrosanct parts of their anatomy, as a means of getting noticed, ignoring the old adage that if you dress like a tart, people will see a tart - but if you dress sharp, then people will notice the person inside.

Women who dress in this way, it has been suggested, are only expressing their sexual freedom, but it has also been said that they are perhaps pandering to dominant male ideology.

Believe what you will. But isn’t it logical that having sexual images and exhibitionism on view so openly in every aspect of our everyday lives - whether it’s the naked magazine covergirls in our supermarket or the weekend teen ladettes who think it’s alluring to grab doormens’ crotches - seriously wanes the very passion that the sexual act is meant to initiate?

Maybe then, just as we add hot mustards or jalapenos to enhance our otherwise dreary sandwich with a bit of pizzazz, more and more people are garnishing their bedroom thrills with a little perversion and decadence, because the stocking itself is failing to satisfy. A by-product perhaps of access to excess?

And I suspect this is just one reason why Lapdancing clubs in England have become more and more popular over recent years. Do you not think?

Over the last few years Titty Bars have been popping up in towns all over the country, opened by business consortiums keen to ride the concentric waves of the successful Spearmint Rhino group.

Unless these clubs are positioned in major cities where success is almost guaranteed by the disposable wealth of white collar workers which in turn allows owners to increase their margins and discourage the lower classes, then you are normally left with rather sad venues offering a second rate service to the lumpen proletariat.

When I was offered a security position at a lapdancing club in the South West of England, I imagined it to be the crème de la crème in terms of employment as a nightclub doorman and I expected businessmen attired in expensive suits with firm judging chins to occasionally stuff twenty pound notes in my top pocket as remuneration for my concierge proficiency complimented by a demeanour echoed only by Roger Moore

In reality, the club struggled on the proceeds of men who bought soft porn, riotous stag parties, and wretched single overweight types who didn’t know how to iron a shirt and still lived with their parents

Once there, I never allowed myself to become familiar with any of the dancers as I was promptly intuit of a common aura of pre-eminence that they felt over others. And even though most of them were very pleasant, I always questioned the moral substance of a woman who laboured herself in the same genre of prostitution while under the guise of being a dancer.

Curiously, it is believed that a female lap dancer who is ovulating and going through the most fertile period of her menstrual cycle, will earn more money than her counterpart, who is not. And this, apparently, has been interpreted as evidence of oestrus in humans: that is to say - women will always manage somehow to advertise their fertility status to men in a rather subliminal way.

And this rather amazing theory, based on statistics from a number of dancers over a period of two months, earned the authors of this revelation the Nobel Prize in Economics in 2008.

Once the novelty of working in a lap dancing club wore off, in my case, after the first weekend, the job then became like many other jobs: routine, un-interesting and a bit like eating fish and chips for your dinner every day for a month.

The most appealing part of the job wasn’t watching the girls strip. In fact I would purposely choose not watch them as a mark of respect for myself and hopefully to convey the message that just because I was working there didn’t mean I was equally  as sad as the cliental. Just because, I mused, a woman stands on a stage and strips, shouldn’t necessarily mean that every man wants to watch, desire and have her. Indeed, it was purely my keen interest in anthropology, particularly in this social terrain, that kept me working there

I was fascinated as to what made a woman choose this as a career and secondly, what kind of men, couples and often single women, visited these establishments and why?

Surely it wasn’t just to gaze at naked women? On the contrary, to some men, those incapable of approaching and conversing with a woman in an ordinary social setting, it was the only place where a woman would talk to them and where they in turn, could exercise their narcissism and role play a character they have watched in a movie before retiring home to bed with a caressed ego.

When couples came in, it was purely for fun with a sexual twist. The girlfriend or wife would often treat their man to a private dance while often, they liked to watch too and occasionally, he would then riposte with a full nude private dance for his girlfriend – while he sat in an opposite chair enjoyed the show.

Single women would boldly walk in and from the first instance, would enlighten me they were there look at get turned on looking at naked women.

In the club where I worked, there were on an average weekend, between six and nine girls working each evening. And their role as dancers, comprised primarily of three stages:

Stage one: The Pole Dance.
By taking in turns to dance provocatively around a shiny pole (whilst trying hard not to appear too bored) and stripping down to their g-string, the girls are showing the punters what goods they have to offer. A bit like a market butcher who sensationally fondles then slap a prime cut to entice a quick sale.

Stage two: Target selection.
Whom in the audience will they select to sit next to with the sole aim of extracting as much money as possible from him, by convincing him that she really enjoys spending time with him and really is impressed by his textbook stories and anecdotes based on his supposed success and wealth. With any luck, his narcissistic tendencies will compel him to spend £100 on a cheap bottle of champagne from the bar, believing the security staff would never throw out such a grandiose socialite if he was later caught snorting cocaine in the gents toilets. Perhaps after a couple of glasses, he’ll agree to part with even more cash and ask her for a private dance costing upto £500.

Stage three: Let’s get intimate.
Come with me into a private booth, make yourself comfortable and watch me strip naked and fondle my breasts, touching myself intimately with my legs wide apart. Let me turn you on by sitting astride your lap and simulating intercourse with a slow up and down movement. Watch me on all fours at your feet, teasing you by slapping my arse, rubbing myself suggestively while pulling my pigtails hard. For I am . . . a glamorous dancer and an artiste!

It wasn’t uncommon to eject customers for asking “How much for a fuck?” And occasionally we’d escort men out for making lewd suggestions to the girls while blatantly putting their hands down their trousers and fondling themselves or attempting to expose their dangly bits. Once, one of the girls asked me to escort a man in his 70’s from the private booth because he had lunged forward and grabbed her boobs. ’But don’t throw him out’ she pleaded with me, ‘He’s quite sweet really’.

Geographically, the general standard of clubs varies nearly as much as the girls themselves. In the Home Counties, particularly in smaller economically challenged towns, once you’ve paid the entrance fee to get in, the ambience inside can leave you feeling apprehensive.

Standing on thin, stained carpet and with no heating, if the price of a pint doesn’t zing you then the dyed haired hippopotamus wearing a heart shaped thong with tar stained teeth struggling to pull herself up the pole, surely will.

I fondly recall one of the dancers emerging from a private booth looking shocked, when evidently, the customer said to her, ‘Just hold it right there darlin’, I’ve seen enough. You can get dressed again now if you don’t mind’.

I understand of course that perhaps generally, my overall annotations on the lap dancing business could be construed as, shall we say, iniquitous. Perhaps another argument then could be that the whole seedy concept is just an alternative arrangement in the pursuance of suspension of disbelief, just the same as we are able to entertain, amuse ourselves and court belief, by watching, say, Batman, Goodfellas or Lord of the Rings.

We all have our own opinions of course. But if someone had asked me my views on ‘lap dancing’ a couple of years ago, I must admit, my answer would have been slightly vague if not elusive, because I had never really given the subject much consideration.

Today however, if someone were to ask my view on the women who choose to dance practically  naked in front of a room full of strangers before performing a somewhat full on nude and seedy lap dance in private for money where rules are often broken, I would honestly have to say that after working in such a club for some considerable time and witnessing the kind of things that went on, I feel very strongly that the profession borders on or perhaps even overlaps into the realms of what can only be described as prostitution. No offence intended of course.

28 YEARS AGO

Driven by the ferocity of the South Atlantic’s force ten arctic wind, grim and ominous swells emerged from out of the surrounding blackness and rolled menacingly into steep contours of mountainous rage that would brutally thrust the ship’s bow steeply upwards and out of the ocean, shelving us for just a split second, like punctuation, before slamming us down insignificantly, deep inside the wave’s low ensuing trough.

At times, it was as if Poseidon himself was expressing his rage at being woken by mans petty squabbling and each time the ship leaned over, perhaps too far, meal trays would fly off tables, stale urine, inches deep, would lap the toilet floor covering the feet of whoever was in there and the ship’s hull would groan so loudly, the sound would momentarily stifle the unremitting and monotone drone of the ships engines.

The landing ship, Sir Bedivere, a virtually flat bottomed vessel stretching 137 metres long and only 20 wide, endured admirably the wrath of the South Atlantic ocean that tormented and threw us around with such fervour, that while we slept, we were forced to strap our bodies to the framework of our bunks using our rifle slings, to stop ourselves from being flung out each time the ship rolled.

And after nearly three weeks, the day arrived when we sailed within striking distance of Argentine fighter bombers, and I remember so vividly that first morning, the words spoken so clearly over the ships tannoy system, firstly in English and then in Chinese for the benefit of the Hong Kong/Chinese crew.

‘’AIR RAID WARNING RED . . . AIR RAID WARNING RED . . . EXOCET ATTACK . . . . EXOCET ATTACK . . . . ONE THREE ZERO DEGREES . . . ESTIMATED TIME OF IMPACT . . . .SIX MINUTES . . . MOVE TO THE LOWER DECKS IMMEDIATELY . . . I SAY AGAIN . . . MOVE TO THE LOWER DECKS IMMEDIATELY!”

When the HNS Sheffield was blown up days earlier and sunk by an exocet missile killing twenty of her crew, it was revealed that most injuries occurred from flying debris as a result of the explosion. For this reason, the drill was to make our way quickly to the lower decks below sea level and lay down covering ourselves with anything possible, for example, by pulling a mattress off a nearby bunk.

Laying there that first time, waiting for impact, knowing that an Exocet missile carrying a 165 kilogram warhead and cruising just above the waves at three hundred metres a second and heading toward us, but unsure exactly which ship the missile’s targeting system had locked onto, induced stomach butterflies on a level of intensity I never dreamed was possible.



Not until we reached the beach-head of San Carlos bay, where the air strikes were almost hourly throughout the daytime and always aggressive, did I begin to seriously consider the possibility I might not be returning home.

Because in those few days at San Carlos Bay whilst waiting to disembark, my ship was targeted and hit three times by 1000lb bombs that failed to explode.

Their pilots would strike fast and at low level, flying in just above the water. Fortunately for us however, too often, they were ‘so’ low that when they dropped their bombs, they were hitting their targets before the sophisticated mechanism inside the bomb, even had time to arm itself for detonation.

The beach-head became known as Bomb Alley and it was there, that in all probability, I experienced the most daunting and frightening moments of my entire life. Moments that I and everybody else, shall never forget.

Today I work in hospitality. Or the licensed trade. Where now instead, my life is habitually threatened by the ostentatious, the illiterate and the comfortably dumb. The Saturday night minority, drunk and in need of a reputation. A by-product of modern social culture mired by hedonism, degradation and decline.