Posts Tagged ‘Gay’


Enjoying the Winter Olympics? Neither am I.

My lovely wife Shirley is though. Especially the Ice Skating. Last night Shirl and her sister Doreen, each chomping on a giant Toblerone, were watching it on TV.

“Nice arse,” Doreen said as some fella skidded around throwing in a toe loop here and a triple lutz there.

This bloke’s shirt had sequins and feathers stitiched in! Sequins! Feathers!


I thought Putin didn’t like all this gay carry on.  And here are all these “men” dressed like Liberace toddling around the rink in shiny, plumed apparel. (Now I would pay to see Liberace On Ice! Imagine – old Liber tinkling the ivories on skates as he tried to keep the old hair weave intact. He must have spent a fortune on glue. What a shame he missed out on the Velcro revolution).

“Nice arse,” said Doreen as a lad from Belarus hoved into view. He was wearing eye shadow! EYE SHADOW!

Doreen was becoming aroused. The hairs in her nostrils were twitching.

It was all too much for me small intestine so I visited the smallest room. The seat is a bit loose and wipeage has become a tricky manoeuvre. Fixing it is on my list of things to do. Along with breathing more regularly.

But that was of little concern as the seat slid from under me and I became the first man ever to perform the triple arse loop. As a result I inspected the mouldy toilet carpet. Two months ahead of schedule. At least I can take that off my list of things to do.

“Lard arse,” Doreen said as I returned to my chair. Shirl cackled and sparked up a Benson’s.

I fell asleep and dreamed of Olympic Glory……………

sled copy

“Faster Lads”



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Good News! My piles are responding to treatment. Judging from the mail I received on the matter, nobody was interested.

It is a big day in the On The Pot household this week. Not only did we have a bidet fitted, but my son and heir Dinsdale, is getting married!

Yes, the drug taking layabout, who once stole his grandma’s teeth for a phial of crack, has found love. Felicity, his probation officer has even allowed him to go to the Church tag free to marry his long time lover Raymond.

Yes! Britain’s first gay marriage will be between my boy and his fella.

Lovely lad Raymond. Bone idle and opiate dependent. Vegetarian too. But he assures me that his current shoplifting spree is purely to pay for the wedding. Love really can turn people round.

I must admit it will be strange escorting the bride down the aisle, especially as he is six feet four and has a tattoo of Snoop Dogg on his forehead, but if that is what my boy wants to do then who am I to stand in his way? The dress isn’t his colour though.

My lovely wife Shirley has shown distinct signs of excitement about the wedding, even going as far as getting a top up mahogany veneer at the salon. She looks like Al Jolson’s lovechild, but at least she has stopped smearing the futon.

They are going on the hen night tomorrow. The locals at the Old Fallopian won’t know what’s hit ’em! Especially when Shirl’s sister, Doreen gets going. It’s like watching a bulimic Pirhana if she get’s her hands on a young man. Poor bastard, whoever you are……

Me? I’m staying in and playing with the bidet.



You can read more of Bob’s musings whilst on the pot here and here. Your lives will be infinitely richer for doing so.

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Pope Bob Takes His Throne Outside St Peter's


It’s not everyday you become Pope!

Cheers to all the lads down at The Conclave And Acclamation for electing me. Trebles all round. The ring they gave me was lovely, so much so that my lovely wife Shirley has already nipped down to the pawnbrokers to see what it will fetch. Purely in an emergency situation you understand.

Facilities Management in St Peter’s are building a wonderful golden pot for me to be carried around on. The Potmobile.

Shirley has ordered a new water-bed and 56 inch TV for our new pad in The Vatican. The old bed was a bit small and full of bread crumbs! God knows (well if he doesn’t here where will he!) what Pope Benny got up to in it.

Don’t worry about sex though. I’ve been celibate for nearly 15 years now. Shirley really was thinking ahead on that one.

I must say I find all this get up ever so camp! Old fellas walking around in ermine, silk and velvet all telling us how to live our lives, to give to the poor and to abominate gays for wanting to get married? Weird when you think about it.

There’s enough gold and fancy candlesticks to make Liberace green with envy.  He would have made a good Pope. Tinkled the ivories like the best of them, loved a robe, a fine head of hair, had his ring kissed a lot and a fierce opponent of homosexuality (The lawyers told me to put that last bit in).

Anyway must go. Have to write my sermon. Tolerance is the theme (although that referee robbed United last week and should be shot, bleedin’ foreigners).

I will call it The Sermon From The Pot


Pope Bob I (Shirley says hello!)

Bob foresaw this in his last column for Gingerfightback which you can read here!

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How are the New Year Resolutions going? Me too sadly. (They are listed here if you are interested).

I have been thinking about Art.  I like paintings.  A Man o’War or a dog playing a harp are both to my taste.

Recently I was struggling in the facilities of Liverpool Street Station on account of a “swift half” of twelve pints of Cider.

As I finished my business, I noticed on the cubicle door, a crayon drawing of two men involved in a gymnastic display worthy of Nadia Comaneci (if she was a bloke that is). One of them may have had a beard. Tasteful it most certainly wasn’t.

There was a phone number scrawled beneath the sketch and the phrase “I like cock.”

One word came to mind, Banksy, followed by the old proverb “One Born Every Minute”.

Lucien Croix De Guerre,  an Art Dealer in Shoreditch certainly was.

£3,000 he paid me for it.

Strange looks I got walking down Commercial Road with a toilet door under one arm and a copy of The Sun under the other! Lucien reckoned I had invented a new genre. Les Artes de Cottage, he called it.

The door is now hung in the Tate Modern with the title, “The Fallowness Of The Soul” (Yeah, I don’t know either). Turns out the phone number was a Tory MP opposed to Gay Marriage.

Bought my lovely wife Shirley a sitting at the local tattoo parlour with some of the money. Lovely tat of Barack Obama she got. Although it was meant to be Margaret Thatcher. Not the best tattooist. Cheap though. Does a great dagger through the heart. He did mine. Looks alright from a certain angle. Shame he spelled Shirley’s name wrong though. Shirty has a certain ring to it though. Could have been worse.



You can read more of Bob’s musings whilst on the pot here and here. Your lives will be infinitely richer for doing so.

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I was feeling peckish. The man sitting next to me kindly agreed to keep an eye on my rucksack, so I made my way to the buffet car.

A woman stood at the counter talking. She looked at me as I approached and then cast her gaze back to the buffet manager, resplendent in his red acrylic waistcoat. His name badge bore the name Alistair.

The woman returned to her conversation, “Yes, the courts had to determine whether the Jaffa Cake is a biscuit or a cake.”

She turned to me and asked “Where do you stand? Cake……or Biscuit?” Her right eyebrow arched vampishly.

The infamous scene in Spartacus between Olivier and Curtis sprang to mind. I asked Alistair for a chicken salad sandwich and a coffee.

“How about a MEAL DEAL  sir? You are entitled to a free packet of crisps at no extra charge. VFM in anybody’s book!”

“OK” I replied. Alistair smiled.  I noticed extensive bridging work on his teeth.

As he popped the comestibles into the carrier, a delicate silver segmented bracelet dangled from his right wrist, swaying with the motion of the train.

I was eager to hot foot it away from this sexually charged atmosphere.

He punched the figures into his solar powered calculator. “£4.25 please sir. Extra sugar? How about some cake? or even….. biscuit?” He revealed his bridgework once more as I paid him.

I have written to First Great Western to complement them on the quality of staff dentistry.

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