To cheer me up-been a bit ‘otherwise engaged’ of late,I’ve decided to post a pic of my cock.
That is one Cocky Cock.
I am frustrated writer.
I have had a mental block regarding
expressing my thoughts for some time now.
Two days ago I decided to have a
These are the subjects which came into my mind.
People who are prone to spontaneous combustion
Repine
Don’t start
Complain
Complins
Rule of St Benedict
Gordon Bennett
Rev.John (Jack) Russell
Nipper
Kennel Club
Mr. Stanley & Dr.Livingstone
Rev. William Wilks
Shirley Poppy
Shirley Parish
Repine
oops … back to the drawing board folks
Well St. Benedict reminds me of Monks.
A recently reformed drunk
Got holy and became a Monk
But in all honesty, he was thrown out of the Monastery
Because he smelled like a skunk.
I find a fair few blokes over here who were heavy drinkers and suddenly pack it in become very religious and seem to go on a purge against all those who like a drink, same with some reformed smokers, is there a mental connection there do you think?
You would be surprised at the type of fellas who become Monks, one fella I worked with, no need for his name, was the biggest womaniser I ever laid me eyes on, he was tall slim and handsome and all the girls were nuts about him, he could lower the pints too. One Friday night after work a group of us were in the pub and out of the blue he came over all serious, asking questions nobody knows the answers to, such as “Why are we here?” and “What’s it all about?” You know the type of thing, anyway he sort of zombied his way out of reality for the rest of the evening and remained staring at the ceiling. Come Monday morning and there was no sign of yerman in work, in fact we never heard from him again until two months later when his brother called to collect his tools, he told me that he had decided to join the Cistercian (Trappist) order at Mount Melleray Abbey. That was about the time Cat Stevens got religious, remember him?
A member of his family called to the house last year to tell me he had died peacefully there, rest his soul.
I prefer dogs as pets, I can’t see anything there Pug, won’t open for me.
there was a young laddie called Pug
who was known for his strong chugalug
he would walk with his cock, along seashore and rock
singing ‘Me and me cocks got the blues!
all this verbagige reminds me we are in the good company of a far off poet namely Banjo Paterson - [I once had his complete works as a Xmas present which I threw out in a moment of passionate disregard - I know I hang my head in shame!]
One of his poems or limericks has long inspired the Australian psyche!
Clancy of the Overflow
I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just ‘on spec’, addressed as follows, ‘Clancy, of The Overflow’.
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
‘Clancy’s gone to Queensland droving, and we don’t know where he are.’
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving ‘down the Cooper’ where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover’s life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.
And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond’rous glory of the everlasting stars.
I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all.
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.
And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow rather fancy that I’d like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal —
But I doubt he’d suit the office, Clancy, of ‘The Overflow’.
Banjo Paterson

Fair play to Banjo Paterson, very disscriptive, I enjoyed reading that thanks for posting it Gumbud.
Meanwhile back at the sausage factory.
Taking your Bird for a walk.
The Sun was shining and the grass was at it greenest
My Bird needs a stroll but today she’s not the keenest
A collar of Gold I made for her neck
It’s only nine carat, but what the heck
I had to coax her with the promise of a feed
Said I’m making a film and she could play the lead
We hadn’t gone far in the bright Sunlight
When she complained that the collar was too tight
I loosed it up and gave her neck a rub
Said I’d remove it altogether when we got to the Pub
I perched her down on a tall wooden stool
Got her a cheese sandwich and a bowl of cruel
Home by the Canal and out through the Park
She was so happy she sang like a Lark.
a duck I suppose?
“is this yerh durk?” - no I don’t have a durk!
aka Peter Sellars
there was a young fella from Dublin
he and his bird just loved cuddlin
they would walk by the Liffey
as she sat on his quiffey
and his eyes they would spin round anew!
I’ve just been to the world’s quietist bowling alley.
… you could hear a pin drop!
A rolling PIN, no doubt.
I think you were once a seafaring man Pug or maybe I’m mixing you up with someone else, anyway I’m very worried about my 20 year old nephew, his dad just rang me and told me the reckless boy has stowed away on an Atlantic liner that was docked in Cork, the poor lad suffers a lot from constipation, I’m hoping and praying they don’t discover him halfway across the Atlantic and force him to work his passage.:shock:
Maybe you were thinking of Pugwash?
Well,azzit 'appens,I wasn’t called ‘Pugwash’ until I joined 45RMC.
On the NCO’s discovering I’d served in the Merchant Navy,it took 0000.000001 nanoseconds before I became Pugwash. As I’m such an ugly sod-[and got spotted licking my b#ll#cks]-it took a further 3 minutes for that to become ‘Pug’. Not interesting,but true…ish.
But back to the subject matter. Jem,he’ll be given a choice. He’ll be brought before the Captain’s Table,with bosun and 1st officer present,plus an appointed member of the crew [seaman,not steward] to speak on his behalf. He’ll then be asked several questions regarding the reason for his presence as a stowaway-covering everything from proof of age,I. D. and legality of residence. If these answers pass muster,he’ll be offered a choice of working as a junior ungraded deck-hand He won’t be expected OR allowed,even if he could produce proof of certification,to keep watches,take the helm,operate deck-gear,etc;but WILL be expected to assist in cleaning and maintenance…[ie,painting-a LOT of painting] Should he refuse to accept,he will be held in quarters,always with at least two guards,as a possible threat to crew,passengers and/or vessel,until a primary port is reached,at which point he will be handed over to the pilot-boat,which will have a compliment of local police plus a junior member of staff from the British Embassy aboard. I suggest he gets painting pdq,as I’ve seen the treatment stowaways get,from both crew & annoyed foreign police staff.
However…if he DOES ‘work his passage’ [yes,yes…hohoho,etc] he may well be given a statutory payment upon reaching either a British port,or one that he asks to be ‘relieved of duties’ at. Bear in mind,it is NOT the crew’s job,nor their right,to refuse a stowaway permission to leave the vessel if permission for said person,BY said person,is requested to do so.
Should such permission be refused,regardless of reason,the stowaway’s status instantly changes from ‘aboard without permissions’ to ‘held against will’. Which is a shitfest no ships officer,nor crew-member,wants or needs to become embroiled in. Remember-it’s a MERCHANT [i.e;civilian] vessel.
sounds like they’ve got it all arse about faced - yes we know all of that or at least we do know BUT what about working his passage - do they for example carry any laxatives aboard and was there any mention of a ships doctor or first aid kit? this lad is in urgent need of a helping hand [gloved of course!]
seeing we are on about back passages etc thought this might be amusing?
Ah.
Sorry chaps [and chappettes]
I’ve been a tad busy of late and as a result,slept but little.
Ergo,just didn’t 'click it was a farcical question.
Grovelling apologies for the somewhat long-winded and detailed reply.
[note to self…stop giving,start taking,get some zeds]
I’ve always wanted to know the facts about what really happens on board a ship when a stowaway is discovered, thank you Pug for that excellent explanation.
I’ve just found out the nephew is safe and sound in a cell in Cork, he got drunk and hid in the toilet of 'Mick’s Bar’ mistaken it for an empty lifeboat, when Mick opened his bar this morning there was yerman sitting on a high stool drinking whiskey and singing the Star Spangled Banner thinking he was in a bar on fifth avenue.;-)
I never heard of Georgie Dee before Gumbud but I like her humour.
It’s a big day for British members tomorrow and may I wish you all well whatever way you vote.
To all us married and long term attached men nothing will ever change, I am reminded of the words in that old Eurovision song of 1968 ‘Puppet on a String’ “In or out there is never a doubt just who’s pulling the strings”:-)
Generally, men in string vests, have no vested interest, let them decide.
Edited. Lol.