Friday, 4 October 2013

The Men Below The Line

     Here it comes. Don’t get scared now. In a bonus feature designed to hurt you, in some cases I have been able to find images of their sex face and the expression they pull when at the point of orgasm. I am so very, very sorry. Also, if you don't know the excuse reason for this, have a gander here first.

     So the very first person (they, wisely, wished to stay anonymous) who commented on ‘Ed Balls’ said they couldn’t imagine Tom Watson. I could. Sadly. All too clearly.

     Tom Watson. Small penis. Prone to girlish giggles at inappropriate moments and would make squeaky little noises in time with his thrusts.

     I KNEW that someone would ask me about George Osborne. I KNEW it. Probably the same Mumsnetter who tried to twist my melon by asking about Danny Alexander (slab of albino spam. Slab of albino spam. Slab of albino spam).

     He would be pale, cold and clammy. Worryingly intense, he would stare at your face the whole time with absolutely no facial expression other than the habitual sneer. No position other than missionary, and he would grip your hands quite tightly throughout. Very fast thrustage. No sound. At the point of orgasm his body would stiffen like a corpse for at least one minute (still staring at you) and his face would go purple and appear as if he was swallowing his own tongue, silently. Then he'd briskly withdraw and go to the bathroom.

     You'd realise when trying to get dressed afterwards that he had stolen your knickers. Which he would deny.

     Gordy Bran popped up. No. I’ve told you I can’t DO Gordy Barn. Look at the picture. Look. At. It. It’s not my fault.

     Interestingly, John Prescott has the same effect. Brain just says 'No. I'm not going there. You're on your own.' Which is a good thing, because THIS 

     I was urged to ‘Do Nick Clegg!’ Um, no thanks. And in any case, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.

     Clegg used to be a feathery stroker until he met Miriam and she sorted him out. Unfortunately, the downturn in his political fortunes has been mirrored by a downturn in the bedroom. Now he sits on the edge of the bed, gazing sadly at his crotch as Miriam storms past him into the bathroom in a mega strop. Again. Later, he pretends to be asleep when he hears her open her top bedside drawer if you know what I mean

     As inevitable as the George Osborne request was, so too was our glorious leader, ‘Call me Dave’ Cameron. I was actually surprised that no one had asked earlier. In researching the  photo, I found it very hard, in fact nigh on impossible, to find a picture of him expressing any kind of emotion at all. Which was quite handy, because that suited my purpose very well.

     Dave? He views sex as a duty, twice a week, and is quite brisk in his manner ahead of it because it is Not Something To Be Enjoyed, it is Something That Must Be Done To Keep A Marriage Strong : 'Sam, it's Tuesday.' No foreplay, and no hip action AT ALL, he instead bobs up and down using his entire body. No talking. No sounds. Always takes seven minutes exactly while SamCam lies underneath him, thinking about buckles on handbags.

     A lovely person, a good, kind, sweet, gentle and wonderful person, who deserves to be beatified asked me about Andy ‘Bambi’ Burnham. Oh how I needed to google image search Andy Burnham after spending nearly an hour staring at the face of George Osborne trying not to pluck my eyes out with a spork.

     I've only just been introduced to the pleasure of Andy Burnham. Not sure how he evaded my attention for so long. He'd be lovely. A little timid and hesitant at first (slight hint of a feathery strokiness), but once he got going he would take to it like a cat to sunlight, and would say lots of lovely things.

     This picture is in no way relevant to this discussion, but I know how admired Bambi & Balls are, so I'm putting it up as an antidote to the horrors that lie ahead of us.

     Peter Mandelson. Yes, I know, obviously, but I was fulfilling a request.

     Mandelson. He would trick you into thinking he's a feathery stroker (something about the way he delicately brushes his hair away from his face with his forefinger). Then would reveal himself as Sexmeister General, with mildly pervy doings, self control of iron, and the rhythm of a metronome.

     A comparison between The Brothers Johnson was sought.

     Jo Johnson... Has a thing about Nanny. Would do lots of talking in weird babyish voice 'I fink little JoJo  want to make a snugglesome cuddle wiv oo'. Very much NOT like Boris. 

     Another sadly foreseeable question.

     Good lord, IDS. My head is telling me he would be terrible, but my weird spidey sense of politicians is saying that actually he wouldn't be too bad. He'd be intense, certainly, and definitely has certain ‘interests’ which would require him to say 'Just slip this on, it shouldn’t hurt' in that slightly urgent tone of voice he has. 

     You'd like it, but you wouldn't like yourself for liking it. Do not underestimate the determination of a quiet man.

     Dear lord, google autofill can be a worrying place. Apparently, if you start to type ‘Jeremy Browne’ into the search box, it suggests you might be looking for ‘Jeremy Browne MP shorts’ and (get this) ‘Jeremy Browne mp sexy’. Hmm (but then I know what search terms brought some of you here, and all I’m going to say is that one about a school field trip was a worrying insight into the minds of The Young People Today).

     Jeremy Browne. Incredibly intense. MINDBLOWINGLY intense physically, but you'd get the feeling it was more about him experimenting, than about enjoyment. You'd feel a bit taken advantage of afterwards. But would be gagging for more.

     And then, of course it happened. It had to, really, didn’t it? Someone just had to take it just that little bit too far. No, actually, not a little bit too far. Far too far. Farrer than anyone else could ever possibly take it, to the far side of Farsville. By which I mean The Slithy Gove.

     ‘Can you imagine what The Slithy Gove would be like?’

     Oh. My brain wants to crawl out of my nose, curl up in a corner of the living room and die. Of course I could imagine it. This is ME you’re talking to. I have The Gift. The gift that keeps on giving. Giving me seriously painful thoughts on the sex lives of politicians. I don’t even want to type this down a second time in case the words suddenly burst to life, skitter off the screen and wrap themselves around my face. FOREVER. But obviously I'm going to.

     Gove. Needlessly and horribly aggressive, shouting expletives at you constantly in the style of Simon from The Inbetweeners trying to talk dirty ‘I’m going to fuck fuck your fanny off, you twat!’ with little bubbly flecks of spittle collecting at the sides of his mouth. Makes strange gurgling sounds to accompany movement that suggests an especially excitable Chihuahua. Also, I hate to break it to you, but he has a well equipped room. Actually, not a room, more of a… Dungeon. Don’t ask. CANNOT BE UNSEEN.

And finally, don’t have nightmares, but The Slithy Gove’s cumface

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