A Motorboating Anecdote

I was on my balcony when I spied this superyacht sailing towards Rothesay Bay. I rush indoors, grab my camera and take a shot of it. Now, the thing to do is to get it onto my Flickr webpage before any of the other snappers on Bute upload a pic of it onto their Flickr accounts. My binoculars reveal it goes by the name of Lauren L. So let's find out a wee bit about the boat. I google its name along with the word “boat” and get several useful web pages revealing good info on the yacht. I see that one of the results of the google search is a Flickr web page, so I click on it to see a photo of the boat. But I don't see a photo of the boat.

I have arrived at a Lauren L's Flickr photostream and am presented with a photograph of two buxom wenches in a pub, one with her head buried in the other's cavernous cleavage. I frown with confusion at first. Then I get the boat reference. I recall that this activity is called motorboating. The one doing the motorboating emits a big flubbery raspberry in the recipients quivering cleavage. I first came across, and indeed participated, in this recreational entertainment in a bar in Aruba. One of the more well endowed resident prostitutes charged a dollar a go; and to us drunken sailors it was just another way of making an arse of ourselves. The phrase “being sucked in and blown out in bubbles” comes to mind.

My photo of the Lauren L. The superyacht, not the bints pleasuring one another.

Viagra and Mt Everest

Here's a wee poem I wrote in April after reading a newspaper article about an expedition to climb Mt Everest with the assistance of Viagra. Apparently it stimulates oxygen production in the lungs and allows climbers to breathe more easily at high altitudes.

I called it An Impaired Conquest.

Men on Viagra

Making their final thrust

Panting, gasping, heaving

Until finally they climax.

But the woman hasn't come

As they spill themselves

Onto Everest's barren summit.

Peering through binoculars

She wisely watches from below,

And the mountain gives her

A nudge and a knowing wink

And they laugh at the men's display

Of doubtful virility.

Days Gone By 18_04_2011

Sitting on a bench on my verandah I'm listening to Radio 4 but am predominantly hearing the singing of blackbirds winching in the nearby trees. Feeling the strength of the sun I momentarily take leave of the wisecracking characters of Fags Mags and Bags to apply sunblock to my face and arms. As I return to the sunbathed verandah I spot a nuclear submarine making its way down the Clyde. Is it heading for the Med to frighten the poor besieged Colonel, I wonder? How far will it get before it breaks down? A program on the financial plight of Barrow on Furnace, where the sub was probably built, preceded the sitcom I'm now listening to.


Noon, and I switch channels to Radio 5 Live and listen to Gabby trying to seduce her colleagues with “did you miss me while I was away” enquiries. My attention is somehow drawn to my wee garden. I see my dandelions are doing well this year, not so my jaggy nettles, though. Maybe it's the lawn which hasn't been mowed since last autumn that has stirred my conscience. On a sudden I come to a decision and silence the coquettish Gabby. Nothing personal gal, just that a man's gotta do etc.

An hour and a torn pair of jeans later the lawn is mowed; all seventeen square yards of it. I feel no sense of accomplishment as I retake my seat on the verandah. It's simply a case of a chore having been done rather than any satisfaction of a job well done. On reflection in haircutting terms I suppose it would be an “I-want-my-money-back” job.

I swallow a bottle of water and think about lunch. I'll do something about it anon. How long have I got before anon is no longer anon? Those blackbirds are still at it. I eventually make two sandwiches for lunch: one roast beef, and the other liver and bacon pate. I wash them down with a nice cup of Twinings English Breakfast tea. And then I munch my way through a couple of croissants – I do like my croissants – and wash them down with another nice cup of tea.

I spend another two hours on the verandah listening to Asha Bhosle singing Bollywood songs, and reading a crime thriller by Gordon Ferris: The Hanging Shed. The book is set in 1940's South West Scotland and invokes quite a bit of nostalgic terms. For instance he mentions the children's game of Gird and Cleek; the Scots term for hoop rolling. Ah, those good old days, which weren't really.

Clouds begin to cover the sun and I head in to watch the Twenty20 cricket on the telly.

Terragen renders - a set on Flickr

Just a shameless wee plug for my Terragen renders. Just click on the link and then click the thumbnails. And to see the scene larger click on the wee magnifying glass top right of the scene. Enjoy.
Terragen renders - a set on Flickr