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My Mum’s Partner Slept With Sarah Michelle Gellar

I’ve got your attention now.

It’s true, but it’s not like you’d think. My mum’s partner, otherwise known as Andy – or, sometimes, as Slightly Weaseldump – was working in the USA last week and when he was due to fly back his ‘plane was cancelled by bad weather. The alternative flight offered would take him not to the UK but to Paris, where he’d be able to get a short-hop flight back to Manchester (I suppose by the time you’re crossing the Atlantic Ocean, hitting Europe is considered to be a “hit”). They’d run out of regular, second-class, Irish-dancing-in-the-bowels-of-the-aeroplane seats by this point, of course, so they upgraded him to the rich people’s part of the ‘plane, right up at the front (although behind the pilot, obviously). And right next to, he soon discovered, Sarah Michelle Gellar, better known to many of us here in Aber as Buffy Summers.

Apparently she was on her way to Paris to take part in some kind of promotion relating to some perfume or something. And she has a little red mobile phone. And she’s friendly. Although he didn’t get her to autograph.

And being an overnight flight, they naturally ended up taking a kip. So, by technicality if by nothing else, he can now claim to have slept with Sarah Michelle Gellar. He called my mum to tell her so, but it sounds like she was neither as amused nor as impressed as I was to hear the same news.

Edit: Please see the discussion in the comments regarding the believability of this story.

Fry’s Dog

Remember Jurassic Bark, Futurama series four, episode seven? It’s the one in which Fry’s dog, Seymour, left in the present-day when Fry gets cryogenically frozen and wakes up in the far future, sits outside the pizza parlour where Fry had worked, waiting for him to return. Turns out it’s based on a true (sad) story, of a dog called Hachiko. Read about Haciko’s life here.

Thought I’d share for all the rest of you Futurama-junkies out there.

Post-BiCon Disasters

It’s not all fun and games, though. In fact, it feels like it’s going to be one of those weeks.

When I got back from BiCon, I discovered that somehow, in my absence, my fridge/freezer has gotten turned down to the lowest setting, turning it from a chilled box into a room-temperature cupboard, and turning everything inside it from tasty food to rotten mulch.
I’d have loved to have cleaned it out and generally sorted out my unpacking and things already, but I’d completely forgotten that I’d made commitments for Monday night, which themselves overran. And they themselves weren’t full of hugs and rainbows, but were the other kind of commitments.
Then, this morning, I got a call from another BiCon attendee, by proxy, to say, “Yeah, you know how you hugged me? Well it turns out I’m carrying around an infestation of headlice, thanks to my kids. Umm… sorry?” Of all of the communicable diseases to contract at BiCon, who’d have thought that headlice would be the one to look out for.
And on top of it all, it looks like it’s going to be a busy, busy work week.

It’s not all bad, though. Ruth‘s been immensely helpful in fixing the fridge situation, even in my absence (work etc.), and was also kind enough to poke through my hair with a nit-comb to check for any nasty creepy-crawlies (she didn’t find any, yay!).

BiCon 2009

This weekend, I was at BiCon 2009 (my third BiCon – I guess that makes it a tradition), and it was awesome. Here’s a short summary of the highs and lows:

Travel

Worcester’s closer than I remembered, and – once Claire‘d gotten used to the Vauxhall Astra we’d rented – we made good time there and back. It’s a really simple journey, really – you just drive along the A44 until you get there, and then you stop (well, okay, there’s a brief stretch on the A470 near Rhayader, but that doesn’t really count, does it?). The biggest difficulty we had was on the University of Worcester campus itself, which is a maze of twisty little passageways, all alike.

Accommodation

The usual student halls affair, although with rooms far larger and kitchens far better-equipped than those in, say, Penbryn. Also, the organisers must have run out of regular rooms, because the flat Claire and I were in had en-suite rooms, which was an unexpected luxury.

An interesting quirk in the halls of residence at Worcester is that they’re very, very keen on motion-sensor-activated lighting with very short timers. The lights in the hallway outside my room would come on for barely seconds, and when I first checked in, I’d only just worked out which was my door and dug my key out of my pocket before I was plunged into darkness and had to leap around to get the attention of the sensor and get the lights back on. The one in the kitchen was even worse – while playing board games on the first night, we eventually grabbed an anglepoise lamp from one of the study bedrooms to use, as it was simply too frustrating to begin your turn right as the lights turn off, and have to wait for a few seconds until your movement is enough to turn them back on again.

On the other extreme, the light (and the – noisy – linked extractor fan) in my bathroom was so sensitive that it would turn on if I so little as walked outside the door to my bathroom, while it was closed, and often wouldn’t turn off for several hours.

Registration

Registration was the usual fun and games, with less time than usual setting up our badges in accordance with the “sticker code” (sort of a handkerchief code, but with a key and an atmosphere of being a little more playful). As usual the sticker code started small (and, unusually, with a distinct and separate “official” code) and expanded over the course of the weekend, such that by the end of the conference it looked like this:

I didn’t spend very long on my badge and stickers this year: just enough to get a core message across… plus a not-on-the-key “Q scrabble tile”, as a reference both to being a board gamer and to Claire and I’s unusual surname. There’s probably at least half a dozen others I could have legitimately added to my pass.

To save you squinting at the pictures (or clicking on them to see bigger ones: that’s allowed, too), I’ll decode my badge for you: polyamorous, likes hugs, possibly available (as in: I’m theoretically open to new relationships, but seriously – where would I find the time?), and the aforementioned “Q scrabble tile” and another “Q” that I found in the sticker stash.

Claire volunteered for a shift of reception desk duties, which is cool, because they’re always in need of more folks there.

Other People’s Workshops

I didn’t go to as many workshops as I have in previous years: many of the things I was interested in clashed with one another, and other slots were simply full of topics that didn’t catch my attention. Also, I’ve found that going to a workshop in “every other” timeslot is a perfectly good way to get by, and spending the alternating periods hanging out, meeting people, and playing board games is a great way to keep energy levels up in the otherwise quite draining busy-ness of BiCon.

Right at the start of the conference, I narrowly missed going to Genital Show & Tell, which I later heard was awesome – I’d gotten carried away talking to people and got there after they’d locked the door, putting a sign up on it that read “This workshop is closed. Sorry.” and underneath which somebody had added “Yes, it is possible to have too many genitals in one place!”
I enjoyed Fun & Games, at which Ele joined me and we shouted lots of rude words, although never in as articulate a fashion as Nomad.
Went to the Smutty Bisexual Storytelling workshop for the first time this year, and it was amazing: huge thanks to the amazing Jacqui (is that spelled right?) for that fabulous (hot!) session.
Loved the talk and the discussion at the Quaker Marriage workshop (much thanks to the facilitator, whose low-key online presence suggests might prefer to remain unidentified), and the fabulous religion/marriage/sexuality conversation I had afterward with another participant in that workshop.
Hung out at two of the three scheduled Naked Lunches, at which I enjoyed bonding with several other (naked) geeks over a shared love of Interactive Fiction. Who’d have thought?

My Workshops

This year was the first year that I ran a workshop (last year’s impromptu purity test party doesn’t count), and, because I like a challenge, I ran two:

Alongside “fire_kitten“, I got bullied into (well, okay, I sorta promised) running a workshop entitled Different Approaches To Polyamory. As the only official poly-workshop on the programme (that’s why I offered!), it was somewhat over-subscribed, and we actually ended up with almost a quarter of the conference attendees present, and for part of the workshop we had to split them between two rooms. A lot of people grabbed me later during the conference and thanked me for the workshop, which was pleasing, especially as I did very, very little: mostly I gave the participants some conversation topics and split them up into groups, and chaired a bit of a chat about it all at the beginning and at the end. But if it worked, it worked, and it sounds like it worked.
When I’d first heard that there was a minor shortage of workshops, I felt compelled to provide one, but I couldn’t think of anything that I knew enough about to stand up and talk about, that people might actually be interested in hearing about. And then I thought of something. I did my other workshop on Listening Skills for Supporting Others, and it also went really well. It was a little under-subscribed, probably because it was timetabled against the time that many people will have been preparing their BiCon Ball costumes (hell, if I’d have been doing so at that time, it’d have made things a lot faster and easier for me!). However, it got some fantastic feedback, even from folks who seemed skeptical at the beginning that any good could be done by listening and supporting feelings, rather than by providing practical help.

BiCon Ball

The theme of the BiCon Ball was Crime and Punishment, and so there were – predictably – plenty of burglars with swag-bags, police officers, superheroes and villains, and the like. The standard of body-painting was even better than normal (a number of people opted to wear virtually nothing, instead being painted as, for example, Wonderwoman, who didn’t wear much to begin with).

Just to be that little bit different – and to take a metaphor to it’s illogical extreme in our characteristic manner – Claire and I decided to actually dress as a crime itself. She dressed as a salt shaker and I dressed as a Duracell D-Cell, and together we were… a salt and battery. Get it? Everybody else we spoke to that evening did, too, eventually, although many of them needed some prompting.

And There’s More…

Other highlights and notable moments include:

The “settling in” period seemed a little worse than usual this year than last year. Somehow it took me a little while longer than normal to “get into the BiCon groove” and to start appreciating BiCon for the heap of awesome that it really is. It’s always challenging jumping into that environment, and that’s to be expected, but something made it a little slower this year. Perhaps the lack of a beer in my hand!
Thoroughly enjoyed the last-minute late-night picnic party we helped kick-off after the BiCon Ball. Some of the coolest people at BiCon found their way to the quad not far from the students union, carrying their leftover food supplies, and we broke bread and exchanged hugs and chatted and it was fabulous. After all that and one thing and another, I finally got to bed at almost 4am, knackered but happy.
Discovered some cool new board games that might be finding their way to a Geek Night near you (assuming you live in Aberystwyth) soon, including Frank’s Zoo, Snatch, and Type Trumps (Top Trumps, but with typefaces; yes really).
Feeling like I’d helped make BiCon a success by volunteering to do a variety of bits and pieces (like the workshops, above) and generally being useful. It feels great to contribute back to the event and the community.
Katie managing to accidentally break a pool cue between her breasts. I didn’t even know that such a thing was possible (apparently, it’s left quite a bruise, and I’m not surprised).
Catching up (albeit only in passing) with Henri and Pascale, with whom we shared accommodation at our very first BiCon.
Spending an hour and a bit chatting to somebody who seemed to coincidentally know their way intimately around pretty much every interest I’ve thrown myself at over the last twelve months. But better. The killer was when it turned out that she spoke Esperanto better than me (if it’s any consolation, she made up for knowing everything by being gorgeous).
Watching another somebody dancing. Honestly, I could have watched him all night.
Everyone seemed to like the campus, which is cool (presumably they didn’t have rooms with extractor fans that whirred until three in the morning, which is quite irritating if you happen to have gone to bed before then, which happens sometimes).
Didn’t see as much of my flatmates as usual, which is a pity, because it included some fabulous people.
Having common sense. Knowing what to say yes to, and what to say no to, and why both are okay.
Not too bad a “coming down” post-BiCon period, this time.

Right; that’ll have to do for a BiCon 2009 Roundup, because Ruth‘s cooking me dinner so I need to go eat.

Paul Isn’t A Murderer

Much thanks to Ruth and Paul for running an awesome murder mystery party last night, and to Rory for snapping some great photos. We played Death By Chocolate, in which American tycoon Billy Bonka had been murdered, but by whom?

[warning: contains spoilers for the Death By Chocolate murder mystery pack]

Most remarkably, it wasn’t Paul’s character this time, as has become traditional. Instead, it was Rory’s: Mike Bison – a loudmouthed American boxer who Rory really brought to life (and whom the rest of us – all “civilized” Europeans – mocked mercilessly). I might have guessed correctly – Claire did – if it weren’t for the fact that I disregarded some of Claire’s character’s – Dame Barbara Carthorse’s – observations because she presented it so drunkenly. That’ll teach me!

I played Dr. Sigmund Fraud, pre-eminent psychoanalyst, which was a fabulous role to be cast as, because it gave me license to blame everybody’s faults on the forgotten traumas of their youth. And also talk about phalluses (phalli?) a lot.

Much credit also due to JTA (Monsoir ‘Chocolate’ Bertrand, rival chocolatier to the deceased), whose already-awesome French accent only became more ludicrous and pronounced as he got more and more drunk, and to Elizabeth (Dr. Doris Johnson, explorer, adventurer, and expert in Aztec culture), who was brave enough to come along to one of these things for the first time, and survived.

Ruth and I have started talking about the potential for the next one to take place near the end of October. Hope everybody can make it!

Ten Weirdest Sex Toys I’ve Ever Seen [NSFW]

This was one of my most-popular articles in 2009. If you enjoyed it, you might also enjoy:

A dirty-looking calendar I found at work (2011).
My beliefs about why it’s wrong to lie to children about Santa (2009), complete with pictures of naughty elves.
An argument I had (2011) with the Office of National Statistics about nonmonogamy and the census.
Open Source Shaving (2009).

Warning: Not safe for work. Not even a little.

[wow; this has been a long while in the writing: I started writing this early in 2009 and finally finished in August – thanks for your patience, folks I promised this to!]

Sex toys are fun. Whether you’re playing alone or with friends, there are a million excuses to let a bit of silicon, plastic, leather or metal get involved, too. But all things said, I’m pretty vanilla: or, at least, I feel that way when I look at the sheer variety of fetishes that are represented on the Internet.

And I’m pretty open-minded. By the time I’m in a sex shop and I’ve turned my head sideways to work out what you’re supposed to do with whatever thing I’m looking at, I’m cool with it. It doesn’t have to be something that I’d want to put up my butt (or whatever) to make it so that I can understand how somebody else might like to.

But once in awhile, I come across something that simply makes no sense to me. Perhaps one of you guys can explain some of these to me:

The Baby Jesus Buttplug

“…make Baby Jesus the centerpiece of your magnificent Dildo Creche.” – Divine Interventions

I’m an atheist, but this seems to be a little disrespectful even to me. But more than that: supposed divinity aside, who wants to put a baby up their bum anyway? What’s the attraction in putting a small pink lump of plastic up your pooper? It’s not even like it’s a real baby and you’d have the excuse that you were just trying to stop it crying.

Who is this marketed to? Christians who want to show how much they really love Jesus? Anti-theists who want to show their disdain for the Son of Man in the sexiest way they could think of? People who want to experiment with anal play but want their toy to be one that they can leave out and not worry about people seeing?

I’m not even sure that it’d be a particularly good buttplug. Okay, there’s a slight ridge there so you’d be in a good position to grind the Lamb of God’s face into your prostate, if that’s your thing, but if I really wanted a religious-themed sex toy – and I don’t – I’d be looking at something with some substance, like a Jackhammer Jesus. Or go for everybody’s new messiah, Barack Obama, with the Head Of State Pleasure Toy (why do we never make sex toys out of British politicians?).

The Bouncing Ball Fucker

“You gotta check our resident ass-pig-in-training BOUNCING and FUCKING HIMSELF on this crazy new toy.” – Fort Troff

Do you remember Space Hoppers? Can you think of anything more childish, more innocent, more fun than bouncing around on a big rubber football with handles? It was a time of simple things, when my friends and I would have Space Hopper races up and down the garden. A time of paddling pools and climbing frames. And they’d be memories I’d cherish, until I saw this… umm… toy.

What happens if you take a space hopper and replace the handles with a six inch ribbed cock? You get this, the “Bouncing Ball Fucker”. I’m sure I don’t need to explain how you’d use it, but if you’re somehow in the dark – or you want to see for yourself – there’s a video.

I’m no prude, but I don’t think I’d be able to take my sex partner seriously if they came into the bedroom bouncing around on a bean bag that happened to be raping their arse at the same time. I can’t think of a way you could use this without laughing. And while I’ve got no problem with a good sense of humour, it’s rarely always the most conducive thing to sex.

The Concubine Masturbator

“Pound the seductive vibrating pussy while fondling the pert breasts.” – LoveHoney

Somewhere in the world, right now, there’s a mad scientist who’s busily working on genetic improvements by which he plans to build the next generation of humanity. And he’s got an idea about what the women of the future should look like. And it’s shown above.

Seriously, that would be a great premise for a horror film. Because I’m more scared of that… thing in the picture than I ever was watching John Carpenter’s The Thing.

There are so many things wrong with this sex toy that I’m not sure I know where to start:

What kind of person fantasises about fucking something that looks like this? I know that, as a man, I’m somehow supposed to be fixated on her boobs and vagina, but seriously: was it really worth removing everything else in order to fulfill this fantasy? Or where they just short on silicon when they built the prototype and said, “Sod it, let’s just make the bits that anybody cares about, all squished up together, and see how it looks.”
I’m guessing that the whole “cock head” thing is supposed to be reminiscent of getting a tit-wank: like, you’re supposed to be able to pretend that it’s your dick that you’re seeing, sandwiched between these shiny artificial knockers. But why bother simulating it: there’s an actual cock involved when you’re using this device. If it’s supposed to be a tit-wank simulator, why bother with adding another knob to the picture. It just makes it look creepy: “Hey, that’s not my willy! Where’d that come from?
It’s so confusing. I’d be too busy trying to puzzle through what I was looking at to be able to get off, I’m sure of it. Soo… I’m penetrating a vagina and then popping out from her neck? Do I have a four foot penis? Or is she some kind of uber-midget? I just don’t know.

There’s one further possibility: perhaps this is a toy to cater to the fetishes of those people who were turned on by the floating bits of organs and shit in jars in Alien Resurrection. That’d go some way towards explaining this monstrosity.

The Xenogon

“A cross between an alien and a dragon, the Xenogon has all the desires and needs of both parents. Here at Bad Dragon, we know that dragons are nigh-insatiable, but aliens are a whole new breed of desire, and this Xeno takes after his alien father! Be a test subject, and submit yourself to his dominant nature, we’re sure he could think of over a dozen experiments to do on you…” – Bad Dragon

What happens when you cross extreme furrydom with modern silicon production mechanisms and put it all on the Internet? You get people making dildos based on the imagined genitals of anthropomorphic fictional creatures. Like this toy, which is apparently based on what the penis of a dragon/alien hybrid would look like.

To be honest, I couldn’t tell the difference between a dragon penis and an alien penis without being told. And you know why? Because we made up what they look like. Why bother making a dragon/alien penis dildo at all? Why not just call it a dragon penis: after all, nobody’s seen one anyway – you can call it a unicorn penis if you like, it won’t change the fact that you’re making it up as you go along!

Now I’m not denying the existence of dragon fetishists – one wrote in to Savage Love last year – but I’m just amazed that there’s such a market for these toys: just Google around if you don’t believe me: there a lots of sites selling this stuff (my favourite is Yiffy Toys, just because their site design is cool). Maybe I’m the odd one.

The manufacturers of the Xenogon are keen to point out that they can’t manufacture these dragon-penises in an ejaculating variety suitable for use with their “Bad Dragon Cum-Lube“. Apparently we know enough about dragons to make a lubricant in the consistency of their semen. Who knew?

The Pussy Snorkel

“Insert the breathing apparatus into your nostrils, rub the clitoral stimulator against your favorite coral reef and start with the tongue action. With the Pussy Snorkel, anyone can be a dive master.” – SexToys.com

Perhaps I should be expected not to “get” this. After all, I don’t have a pussy to speak of. But even in my furthest imaginings, I can’t see how this can be a winning idea. First, I’d like to pick holes in the quotation from SexToys.com, above: coral reef? Coral reef? Who calls a clitoris a coral reef?

But secondly, how wet do you have to have gotten your female partner before you’re in need of a fucking snorkel to go down on her? The website indicates that it’d be good for muff-diving somebody in a hot tub, but it doesn’t take a genius to observe that the design of the snorkel is such that it’d be pretty much useless for actual underwater use: the tips of the tubes point downwards: after a quarter-lungful of air (and the associated minute or so of hot slippery licking), you’d have to come up for a refill… and I can see this becoming quickly frustrating for your partner, who’s probably just about got long enough to get into it before you come up again, panting for air.

It doesn’t look comfortable. It doesn’t look sexy. It doesn’t serve any practical value. It’s not even a great novelty, because if you gave one to somebody you’d have to explain to them what it was for before they would “get it”.

Do you know what I think? I think that the manufacturers of the beer hat one day realised that they’d saturated the market (quite literally) and that they needed to come up with another product that can be built with food-grade adjustable tubing pre-cut into head-circumference lengths, and invented this silly product. At least the beer hat let you drink while you had sex.

“Jackson”

“Jackson is the model for our largest toy yet, measuring 21 inches of insertable length. His size has intimidated most, including the mares. Due to the size, his toy is one of our most detailed when it comes to veins and glans. But don’t just listen to us, try one for yourself!” – BB5T Industries

Whoah. That’s just… not possible. To give you a context of the scale of this dong, that’s a 2L drinks bottle next to it. It’s a shocking 21 inches tall – that’s about the distance between the vagina and the neck of an average woman.

This cock is so large that you could use it as a baseball bat. You could beat somebody to death with it. It’s in the region of four times as any penis you’re ever likely to have inside you. So why the fuck do you want one?

In case it wasn’t obvious from the quote, above, it’s a replica model of a horse’s penis. Yes, an actual horse – there’s pictures of him on the website, if you want to take a look, and he’s certainly hung like a… well, you get the idea. And he’s big for a horse.

I’d like to be able to pretend that the people who buy this toy do so to pleasure some horny mare in their stable, but I know that’s not going to be the case, and I’m sure you do too.

What’s the attraction? Can anybody enlighten me? We’ve heard breasts described in terms of “more than a handful” being a waste – surely the same is true of a cock – that any parts that are simply too large to fit into any of your orifices are a little bit pointless? Or maybe, somewhere, there’s a woman who can take this inside her? I’d like to say that I’d like to meet her, but it’s quite possible that we all actually live inside of her, like little insects in a microcosm of stars and planets, all inside her humongous vagina. And there’s another horror film plot, right there.

The Area 51 Love Doll

“It’s pussy-shaped mouth, 3 supples [sic] breasts, suction cup fingers and ass-shaped ears make it the kinkiest love slave in the galaxy.” – SexToy.com

And for the first time since the dragon thingy, we’re back to aliens again. For those of you who really want to be taken for a flying saucer ride and given a good probing (and who doesn’t), there’s this thing… the Area 51 Love Doll. She features purple skin (pretty alien), three breasts (very alien), and three – yes, three – fuckable holes (not so alien).

Is this actually somebody’s fetish? If so, I’m sorry to disappoint them: a little searching found this picture of what she actually looks like when she’s inflated (with thanks to this guy):

I’m not sure what the trading standards authority has to say about sex dolls, but that doesn’t look much like the thing depicted on the packet to me. Equally unarousing, but not the same, see?

It’s possible that I just don’t understand the attraction of inflatable sex dolls. I mean: I don’t see how putting your dick into a plastic-feeling novelty balloon with a surprised look on it’s face (and it’s always a look of surprise, isn’t it?) is an improvement on just having a wank the old-fashioned way: throwing your hand down onto the bed and raping it. Rotten.com did an article about inflatable love dolls, and I looked through it and thought: I wouldn’t fuck any one of those. Maybe it’s just me, again.

In other news, I frightened myself almost to death when I saw the Frankenstein’s monster-like mess that these guys came up with when they attempted to build their own sex doll out of parts. Take a look.

The Mysterious Japanese Blowjob Machine

“I noticed what looked like a bright pink projector in the store window. But instead of a lens, the machine had a faux-flesh orifice with ‘Heaven’ scrawled across the side. And instead of a lightbulb, it seemed to have a motor churning away, tirelessly.” – Gizmodo

I am not popping my peter into that. Aside from the fact that it looks like it’s been converted from what was once a Polly Pocket (or, failing that, looks like it might be built in the body of what was supposed to be “my first tazer”), I can’t read any of the writing on it: what happens if I accidentally hit the “castrate” button instead of the “oh God, please, don’t stop” button? And how would I tell the difference given that I don’t speak a word of Japanese.

Also, I’m having difficulty imagining how this even works. Bear with me: I’m guessing from the photo that the “cartridge” (the bit on the left, labeled “Heaven”, can be removed when, umm, “spent”, and replaced with another: and they come in a number of different varieties based on what sensation you’re looking for) moves in and about of the barrel of the plastic body. It might rotate, as well. So: where do I put the device?

If I put it on the bed, I’m pretty sure that it weighs less than me, and even Newton wouldn’t need to run an experiment (although he might like to, if you gave him one of these for his birthday) to prove that what will happen is that my cock will stay exactly where it is and the machine will jump around on the bed, giving virtually no friction at all. Or you could grab hold of it, but by that point you might as well just be holding the damn cartridge and save yourself the two-million yen or whatever one of these pretty-coloured toys will set you back.

Maybe I’d be surprised: the Japanese have come up with a number of great things, such as Pocky, and maybe this is another one of them. But I doubt it.

The Elastisizer

“This toy is designed to stretch you out as you use it, the straight parts act to let you “rest” a bit before going on to the next level.” – Zeta Paws

Sooo… it’s a training sex toy? That you can use to “widen yourself up” in anticipation of even bigger sex toys? Oh-kay.

This beast of a toy stands a clear 8½ inches long and starts at 3 inches across at the narrow end. By the base of the thing, it’s 5½ inches wide. So; a little like putting a regular penis into you… sideways.

Okay, for sheer size, it doesn’t really compete with the horse penis we saw earlier, but, shit – 8½ by 5½ inches? That’s not a sex toy, that’s a doorstep! And I’m not sure it was wise to make it out of whatever that shiny material it’s made from is, because every time I look at it I think it’s not real – that perhaps it’s some cheaply-rendered 3D effect, like something The Lawnmower Man might put into his bumhole.

Mr. Jack’s Mouth

“His softly noduled throat will send you into overdrive. The mustache will make you remember that he’s a guy, and that he craves your juicy cock down his throat.” – Heartsfire Leathers

A man with the throat of a sandworm, what could be sexier than that? Oh, I know: a piece of rubber made to look like the mouth and chin of a man with the throat of a sandworm: that’s right! The thing that makes it most obvious that this sex toy is bad news is the same test that you can use to prove that anything is bad news: just write “I WILL DEVOUR YOUR CHILDREN” under it, in a speech bubble. If it doesn’t look out of place, it’s time to be alarmed. If you’re supposed to be putting your tool into it, be doubly alarmed.

I’m not sure what it is about Mr. Jack that’d be most likely to give me nightmares. Is it the mouth riddled with “nodules”, which makes it look either like he’s the child of a shark of that he’s got some horrible oral disease: either of which does not incline me to let him suck me off. Or perhaps it’s the obviously-fake mustache, somewhat reminiscent of the eyebrows of my old high school history teacher, that I’d be able to glance down at and imagine leaping off, like ravenous caterpillars, and biting into my balls. Or maybe, and this could be the big one, maybe it’s because fucking half of a disembodied face is fucking creepy.

Seriously. I’ve seen triple-breasted aliens, breast-vagina-penis hybrids, and plastic feet with vaginas in them, but even though they looked like mutants, at least they weren’t half a face. Half a face is the kind of thing that nightmares are made up of. If you fell asleep after spunking into your Mr. Jack, and woke up the following morning to find half a fucking face in bed next to you, well, you’re likely to need some new sheets afterwards. Please, please, manufacturers of sex toys, please stick to dismembered genitals and don’t start making half-bits of human faces. It’s just scary.

Thanks.

Board Games And Waterfalls

It’s been a fun, full weekend. Highlights include:

A good Troma Night

In case you weren’t following, Troma Night is on Fridays nowadays. We watched the fantastic 1945 film Brief Encounter, which I’d highly recommend, and Lava, which I wouldn’t (although if you do see it, watch ’til the end: it improves, I promise).

Same about the early finish, though. People are such sleepyheads these days.

A lie-in!

Ah, it shouldn’t be such a rarity that it’s noteworthy, but unfortunately it is. I thought I had so little to do on Saturday, so Claire and I lay in and then went for a leisurely brunch… and then is when I remembered all of the things I was supposed to be doing – helping out with the Samaritans stand at the Aber Farmer’s Market, meeting up with a friend for a drink, and meeting my dad and his partner Jenny who were visiting.

Did manage to find time to hack around with some Wiimotes, though. I’ve been doing some fun reverse-engineering of their peripherals. More on that later, little doubt.

An awesome Geek Night

My dad had a little difficulty with Munchkin, but apart from that it was a fast-paced and fun Geek Night. I kicked arse at Gnostica, but only by being a bastard (Claire almost had it at one point, and even got so far as to declare an imminent victory), and also played a hell of a game of Puerto Rico, winning by only a couple of points. It was nice that Jenny was able to win Apples to Apples on the first time she’s played it, despite not being able to “play to the judge” as the rest of us so often do.

And afterwards, most of us lounged around and chatted, in that way that’s sometimes become the end to a Geek Night, and it was fabulous. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard as I did while Jimmy was trying to explain to Elizabeth how variable the consistency of semen can be. You probably had to be there, I’m afraid.

Pushing my dad off

My dad’s visit marked the beginning of his now-annual Aberystwyth to Preston cycle ride (yes, the mad fool rides the 130+ mile journey in a day).

I pushed him the first 5 yards, though, along the prom, so I’ve done my bit. He set off at about 08:30 and got home at about 19:15, so made a run of 10 hours of 45 minutes. And I’m pretty sure he couldn’t have done it without that first 5 yards, so it’s my victory, really.

Hafod estate

Ruth and I decided to make the most of the day, having gotten up early to see my dad off, and so – armed with a Forestry Commission brochure from the hotel where he and Jenny had been staying – we went to go for a walk around the quite-beautiful Hafod Estate, near Devil’s Bridge. It’s a quite beautiful part of the Ystwyth valley, filled with forests and waterfalls.

And yet another Whedon Night

And then a Whedon Night (our weekly Buffy & Angel night) to finish off the weekend. We’ve decided to try to squeeze a couple more of these in over the coming weeks in order to try to finish the final series of Buffy (and the penultimate series of Angel) before Ruth leaves for Oxford at the end of the month.

I Hate My Job [seen online]

I laughed so hard, I had to share this story with you:

My job is so fucking unbelievable. I’ll try to sum it up by first telling you about the folks I work with:

First, there is this supermodel wanna-be chick. Yeah, okay, she is pretty hot, but damn is she completely useless. The girl is constantly fixing her hair or putting on makeup. She is extremely self-centered and has never once considered the needs or wants of anyone but herself. She is as dumb as a box of rocks, and I still find it surprising that she has enough brain power to continue to breathe.

The next chick is completely the opposite. She might even be one of the smartest people on the planet. Her career oppertunities are endless, and yet she is here with us. She is a zero on a scale of 1 to 10. I’m not sure she even showers, much less shaves her “womanly” parts. I think she might be a lesbian, because every time we drive by the hardware store, she moans like a cat in heat.

But the jewel of the crowd has got to be the fucking stoner. And this guy is more than just your average pothead. In fact, he is baked before he comes to work, during work, and I’m sure after work. He probably hasn’t been sober anytime in the last ten years, and he’s only 22. He dresses like a beatnik throwback from the 1960’s, and to make things worse, he brings his big fucking dog to work. Every fucking day I have to look at this huge Great Dane walk around half-stoned from the second-hand smoke. Hell, sometimes I even think it’s trying to talk with its constant bellowing. Also, both of them are constantly hungry, requiring multiple stops to McDonalds and Burger King, every single fucking day.

Anyway, I drive these fucktards around in my van and we solve mysteries and shit.

As seen here.

My Firefox Window

It didn’t occur to me until somebody looked over my shoulder and commented on it, today, that I actually have an at-least slightly unusual layout for my Firefox window. I thought I’d share with you all the thinking behind the particular collection of add-ons and tweaks that go into my day-to-day web browsing:

I’m a big fan of maximising the amount of screen real estate available for browsing, minimising the chrome that surrounds it. That’s why I use the LittleFox theme. It’s not the prettiest theme around, but it’s tiny, simplistic, and works with every version of Firefox I’ve ever thrown it at. It saves space by reducing the size of icons and excess space around tabs and buttons, and it does a great job of it.

To save even more precious vertical space (and because I’m generally running at high screen resolutions, and can spare the horizontal screen space), I combine my menu bar, toolbar, address bar and search boxes into a single toolbar. You can do this by right-clicking on the menu bar and clicking “Customize…” I drop the refresh, stop, and home buttons. I never pressed refresh nor stop anyway, always using the shortcut keys (F5 or CTRL-R, and ESC, respectively), and I my homepage is about:blank. On computers running at lower screen resolutions I’ve previously used the Searchbar Autosizer add-on to tuck-away the search box when I’m not using it, but nowadays I rarely bother.

I frequently find myself with dozens of tabs open, and I loathe it when tabbed applications force me to “scroll” left and right through my tabs (I’d rather my tabs just got narrower and narrower, until only the favicon remains), so I use about:config to change the browser.tabs.tabMinWidth setting to 0, which, after you’ve restarted your browser, changes this behaviour.

In addition to the add-ons that can be seen in my status bar – ColorZilla (in the bottom-left, so not visible in the screenshot above), Adblock Plus, FireGPG, Firebug (and a few extensions), Google Reader Watcher, Greasemonkey, HTML Validator, NoScript (with noscript.firstRunRedirection set to false, to stop it’s nagging), and ShowIP, I use one further add-on to tidy up my “bookmarks toolbar”.

The Status Buttons add-on gives you the capability to drag-drop any other user interface component into the right-hand side of the status bar: I use this to move the entire contents of the Bookmarks Toolbar down into the status bar, tucked out of the way. I remove the titles from most of the bookmarks (I can identify these, my most-frequently-used sites, by their favicons), adding them only where there’d otherwise be ambiguity as to the purpose of the icon.

All of these tweaks give me a huge browsing space that works the way that I want it to. I’m a heavy user of keyboard shortcuts – I pretty much only use the mouse to click hyperlinks and the buttons in the status bar – so this kind of layout suits me very well. One of the great things about Firefox is it’s flexibility: that you can make these kinds of tweaks so easily. And hopefully if you’re a similar kind of power user you’ll take some of these tips and be able to make use of them, too.

Please Drink This Alcohol-Free Beer Responsibly

Huh? ^*

How am I expected to irresponsibly enjoy an alcohol-free beer? By selling it to people as “the real stuff”? It’s certainly not by drinking it – you’d have to drink somewhere in excess of one-hundred and sixty-seven bottles of Beck’s Blue, for example, to get the same amount of alcohol as you’d get in one pint of 4% ABV beer (thanks, Wikipedia), and Beck’s Blue is just about the most alcoholic of the “alcohol-free” beers.

Perhaps juggling the bottles would be an irresponsible way to enjoy it. The shopkeeper certainly seemed to think so this evening.

^* Beck’s Blue is an alcohol free beer, in case you didn’t know. My year-off alcohol’s going okay (now over half-way through!), by the way, although I’m developing a taste for alcohol-free things and I’m not sure that I’m permitted to maintain posession of my Y chromosome.

Democracy At Work

Earlier this week, I had a strange experience, but it requires a little bit of back story.

Spend enough time with me, and you’ll hear me gripe about the problems of our democracy: the faults of the plurality voting system, gerrymandering and it’s long-term ripple effects, party politics, the motivations of politicians, and much more, even before I get down to talking about the apathy of constituents and our disgustingly ill-informed populace. I know how little my vote counts for (clue: pretty much nothing), and that’s why to make my opinions heard though occasional, carefully-researched letters to the people who represent me, and I encourage others to do the same – a letter, while in itself not particularly powerful, is still worth a lot more than a ballot paper. And thanks to WriteToThem, it’s really easy to send correspondence to the elected officials who represent you on the local, regional, national and international stages.

Perhaps inspired by some combination of (a) my recent experience with Pecky and the Squawkies, (b) the mess created by their seagull buddies on and around rubbish collection days – which seems to have gotten worse recently (see photo, above) – and (c) the petitions that seem to be floating about town in general over the last few weeks, requesting that something (humane) is done about the troublesome Aber seagull population, I wrote to the council to express my thoughts on the matter, and to make a few suggestions based on things that have been tried by other towns affected by seagulls.

When I’ve written to representatives before, I’ve gotten a mixed response rate, and that’s fair enough – they’re busy people (at least, they are if they’re doing their job right). Writing to my MP, over the last decade or so, has typically gotten me a response rate of about 80%, which is quite impressive. Writing to MEPs gets a response rate of about 65%. Writing to a PM gets a response rate of about 50%, and that’s better than I’d have expected. So far, writing to my local council, although I’ve not done so often, has gotten me a 100% response rate.

And so I got an e-mail in response to my query about seagulls: great, it’s a pressing issue, apparently, and one that’s attracting a lot of attention from constituents (nice to know I’m not alone in my opinions), and it’s now scheduled for discussion on the next Department of Environmental Services and Housing Scrutiny Committee meeting, which is nice. What I didn’t expect was what followed.

The chap pictured above (thanks, BBC) is Ceredig Davies, Aberystwyth Central Ward councilor for Ceredigion Council. On Monday night, while I was on my way back to The Cottage after ReAnime Night (with a brief diversion to say goodnight to Claire on the way), he pulled up his car alongside me and leapt out, shaking my hand as he went.

He thanked me for my e-mail, explained that he’d e-mailed me and asked if I’d got it, and told me what he’d done about it so far and the challenges were that he thought might make it difficult to implement my suggestions (mostly only things I was aware of, but sadly not things I know the answers to). Then he dashed back across the street, hopped back into his car, and drove away.

This is perhaps the most pro-active response I’ve ever had from an elected official (even without the surprise meeting in the street, his reply to my e-mail was prompt and informative, and was followed-up by more information that interested me), but it left a question burning in my mind: Mr. Davies represents 15,000 or more people in this area, of which I’m just one – how the hell did he know what I looked like, let alone well-enough to spot me in the street. From his car? From behind? At night?

I’m impressed and all that, but it’s still a little spooky. I asked him at the time how he recognised me, and he mumbled something about being the kind of councilor who’s “a bit of an anorak” (what does that mean? does he sit up at night researching his constituents and memorising their appearances and daily movements? does he have a little book with all of our national insurance numbers in and cross them out when he meets us, like a trainspotter but with people?) as he made his way back to his car.

So, the verdict on Mr. Davies: very effective, but also a little bit scary.

Hoghton Tower

Claire and I just got back from a weekend in Preston, taking the opportunity to visit my folks as well as to (as is now traditional) go to the annual “Symphony at the Tower” at Hoghton Tower (which Ruth and I buzzed by hot air balloon on our way back from Scotland, earlier this year).

Highlights included:

Sticking marshmallows to Claire while eating our picnic in the gazebo we would later abandon on the site after many years of faithful service.

The music. Of course. The Philharmonic Concert Orchestra were as good as ever.

Dancing! (some folks started dancing a lot sooner than others, as shown)

Whatever’s going on here! (I think perhaps I’m too far away from the stage and can’t see what’s going on, even wearing borrowed jam-jar-thickness glasses).

My sister insisting on getting to be in a photo with the mayor. I think she thinks that by putting this picture on Facebook and tagging it, it’ll somehow help her future political career.

The rain pouring down. Thankfully, we were equipped and ready with emergency poncho supplies, so we were able to carry on leaping around like mad fools and letting only the bottom part of our sleeves get wet. Claire later had to wring hers out. Spirits remained undampened.

Claire falling in love with a singer wearing Union Jack trousers. In the photo, I think he’s singing “Jerusalem“.

The fireworks at the end of the concert were particularly spectacular this year, despite the weather. It was great to catch up with my family again, too (and visit my sister Becky‘s work, leap around on my dad’s trampoline until I injured my back doing so, liberate eggs from my mum’s chickens, and so on), although the journey to and from Preston was particularly tiresome this time around, and I’m sure my travelsickness is getting more pronounced. There’s more photos from the trip here.

Back in Aber, I’ve got a few fun little projects to be working on, alongside the usual things that keep me busy. I’ll blog about a few of these when I get the chance.

Internet Explorer 8 More Popular Than 6

Today is a good day for the web. Internet Explorer 8, which actually has reasonably good standards support, is now more widely-used than Internet Explorer 6, which is horrific to code for (Internet Explorer 7 isn’t much better).

It’s always been hard to write good quality web sites that work in Internet Explorer 7 and below: generally, I’ve always taken the approach of writing sites to comply with the standards and then to put in hacks specifically to address the problems introduced by IE6 and IE7. The sooner that we can disregard these browsers, the better.

Despite the stupid marketing campaigns Microsoft’s been pursuing to try to increase adoption of IE8, I’m at least a little thankful that they’re apparently working. I’ll be so glad the next time I can launch a site and not even have to think about using <!–[if IE 6]> conditional comments.

A Plague Of Seagulls

This summer, I’ve been tormented by three beasts, who I’ll call Mr. Pecky and Mr. & Mrs. Squawky.

Mr. Pecky is a herring gull. Two or three mornings a week, between about 5:30am and about 6:15am, he’ll land on the flat roof of the utility room, outside my bedroom window, and repeatedly peck at his own reflection. Double-glazing isn’t enough to keep the noise out, particularly as the window is often left ajar at night to prevent me from cooking in Aber’s recent heatwave. I’ve no idea why he does this.

Mr. & Mrs. Squawky are also herring gulls. Two or three mornings a week, between about 6:30am and 7:15am – although almost never the same days as Mr. Pecky – they sit outside my bedroom window and argue in loud, high-pitched, seagull voices.

They go away, eventually, but by then I’m awake earlier than I’d like, so I’ve been trying to find ways to discourage them. My preferred technique thus far has been to keep a Super Soaker by the window and getting up to blast the buggers with a stream of cold water, but this hasn’t worked: firstly, they manage to escape about half the time, before I’ve managed to get them into my sights (and by this point I’m already out of bed, and I’ve never been good at going back to bed once I’m up and moving), and secondly, it doesn’t seem to be acting as a deterrent: Pecky and the Squawkies are back later in the week with more pecking or squawking^*.

I’m thinking that I need to construct some kind of mechanism on the roof to limit their landing options. At the very least, a well-positioned clothes horse or two should prevent Mr. Pecky from getting close to the window. Any other suggestions (I’d be tempted to build one of these if it wouldn’t be liable to kill the neighbourhood cats) are welcome, before I go completely mad.

Peck, peck, peck, peck, peck, peck, peck, peck. Squawk! Squawk! Squawk!

Too late.

^* Yes, I’m aware of the possibility that I’m not seeing the same three seagulls each time – and I’ll confess that they all look the same to me – but it’s easier for me to come to terms with the possibility that there are three particular seagulls who hate me and don’t like me to get a lie-in past a quarter past seven than it is for me to accept that maybe all seagulls want me to suffer and are working to some kind of rota: “Seagull number #1036675; you’re up!”

Claire Goes To Pisa

So, last weekend Claire moved out of The Cottage and into her new flat, the top floor of a somewhat-slanted building on Queen’s Road which I’ve tken to calling Pisa. I gather she’s planning a flatwarming party in the afternoon – if you’re on the Abnib Events SMS list, you’ll already have heard about this, and I’ll let you know more as soon as I have it.

For those of you for whom this comes as a surprise, I apologise. I’m aware that in some ways it’s become my duty to keep those of you who’ve left Aber for brighter pastures up-to-date about every little bit of gossip about what’s going on back here in the West, but between all of the things that have been keeping me busy of late – not limited to helping Claire gather all 700 pairs of her shoes, or however many there are (it certainly feels like somewhere in the region of 700), into boxes for her to transport to her new home – I’ve simply not had time to put regular effort into keeping you all up-to-date.

Claire stars in a video tour of her new place, if you want to look around.

To provide answers the questions I anticipate, before they’re asked:

No, nothing else changes. We’re still together, and, in fact, our relationships (already too complicated for some of you, I know) are all still just the same as they already were. I’m still right where I was in the middle of a wiggly W-shaped chain of people in a series of more-open-than-not relationships, with all the same people you’re used to. If you’ve been on another planet for the last couple of years, that is:

Sting (no, not really) – Claire – Dan – Ruth – JTA

Yes, everything still happens at The Cottage. Well, everything that already happened at The Cottage: that is – Troma Night, Whedon Night, and the ocassional Geek Night at those times when both (a) Rory is elsewhere and (b) I am not. And, as usual, my door is open for guests just about any time.

So, why the change? That’s a question sufficiently-complex to not be answerable with anything as short and catchy as this blog post is planned to be. The short answer is that Claire wanted some space that was “hers”, as in – hers alone, not something shared with me and, for half the week, with somebody else!

And how do I feel about all this: well, a little poorer, for one – it’s obviously more expensive for the pair of us to have a house and a flat than just a house, especially as this change coincides with a (long-overdue, to be fair) rent increase at The Cottage: we’re both going to have to budget significantly more carefully than we did previously. It’s also a significant change – after six and a half years of living together – that’ll take some getting used to, and it’s sometimes hard to remember that this isn’t a step backwards. But that apprehension aside, I’m still supportive of Claire’s wish to have a place to call her own.