12 September 2017

All’s Well That Ends Well

No, not the play by Shakey, but this is a rather amusing incident that happened recently. I say amusing, I found it quite funny.

Quilp, a man firm and sound of heart,and of buxom valour arrives for a session of bondage, Everything goes well, he’s manacled by the ankles, handcuffed, hooded and gagged and unable to move and dressed in his black corset, tights and panties. Perfect.

After a while, I want my legs caressed and Quilp would like to move. All goes well until we come to remove the handcuffs, when – horror, disaster! The key won’t work! Luckily we managed to get one wrist free but the other was stuck tight. I suggested cutting it off but Quilp wasn’t too keen on me rasping away with a large saw on his wrist for some reason.

After exploring all avenues, the only alternative is we have to drive to Plumstead Fire Station to ask the brave lads of Blue Watch to cut Quilp free. Naturally, they all want to come out have a laugh at Quilp’s expense, and, I must admit when I went to the door and spoke to the first fireman, I did happen to mention that Quilp likes to be handcuffed while I bugger him. That was the reason he was handcuffed in the first place. And the fact he’s wearing ladies underwear under his normal clothes; and a chastity device. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned any of that but at the time it seemed important….

And so the brave fireman came to our rescue. Or rather Quilp’s because I was sat quite comfortably in the car. I’m not sure why they had to take his photograph though, something to do with Facebook, apparently. And one of the fireman kept the handcuffs for some reason.

Anyway, back we came, I roped up the unfortunate creature in a hog-tie and I’m happy to report Quilp enjoyed his happy ending. So, all’s well that ended well.

The Joy Of Text

Unbeknown to me, parts of my website have been copied and put on a listing site advertising just my mobile number and informing people that I work in Earl’s Court; I don’t. I work the other side of London. So consequently I am now being inundated with text messages, most of which make absolutely no sense whatsoever.

Here’s a verbatim example from someone who calls himself Charlotte; at least I think it’s a fella:  

“Hey it Charlotte I got that ellastic waste on it makes me look thiner but farting more lol”

What the….?

Or the one who wrote:

“Hi I want be you piss bitch where r u”

Is it impossible for these snowflakes to write a coherent sentence? I take it, it is a snowflake as I doubt any respectable individual over the age of 30 would write such nonsense; at least, not as long as he’d paid attention in class and was intelligent and sophisticated enough to enjoy a caning. If fact I think I should request Charlotte makes its way over here for a beating to wake his ideas up. Of course both these correspondents might be medically classed as imbeciles, which will explain a lot.

I blame the teachers for this standard of ill-education, primarily because they aren’t that well educated themselves. Most of them are all too busy indoctrinating the pupils on how wonderful life is under the jackboot of the EUSSR. And it’s not like they work full time either, most of the year they’re on holiday, on strike or away at what’s laughingly called teacher training.

So with that, I have come to the decision that not only will I not answer text messages from people I don’t know and I will not give an appointment to a snowflake. They need to grow up first and I’m afraid they just haven’t got the sophistication to fully enjoy the pleasures of corporal punishment.

Lovable old Nick used to use the term Melt for someone who was a bit of dope and who wasn’t the full ticket. Well luckily, snowflakes melt.

Back To Work

Well that’s the holidays over, thank heavens. Everyone’s back at work and Maid Doris is back in his box, in more ways than one. But who on earth would want to go to places full of foreigners? You could stay in London and have the same experience. The same waiters, the same over-priced cappuccinos, the same beggars begging, the same people robbing you but at least you don’t have to go through passport control. Not unless you’re visiting Tower Hamlets, which in all honesty, I most certainly do not wish to do. 

This is why I always holiday in south Devon, primarily around Totnes. At least there, you don’t need a phrase book to shout, “Be off with you” at the local beggars as most of them are English and have newly arrived from the big cities for the summer season. Quite aggressive too, I’ve found. Although kicking them whilst they’re lolling cross-legged on the ground and spitting in their begging bowl usually shows them who’s the boss.

Ha! Aggressive begging? This is why God invented pepper spray.

More Implements To Beat You With

I’m afraid I’ve rather indulged my taste for heavy corporal punishment again with a brand new paddle from Grateful Pain. It’s very well made and the handle is produced from smooth Yew so it’s ideal to force up inside while you’re bent over the bench. I hope there are no splinters on the handle, they can be quite painful, I’m told.

Also, I’ve bought a “Magic Wand” vibrator from Love Honey. This is an electric powered hand vibrator but it’s such a size and shape it would be ideal to beat someone across the head with, after an anal inserton.

The Mogg

Oh, I do like this politician, the Mogg. The Mogg for PM, I think. Isn’t he gorgeous? Not least because he completely winds up all the lefties so much they’re left gibbering nonsensically. And he always has the perfect retort for them. He’s only got to say something about Brexit and the Remoaners defecate into their trousers; both the men and the women.

Liberals are all for free speech provided you only speak about something they agree with; then it becomes hate speech and they have to shout and scream and wail and complain to the police, Twitter, the Beeb, The Gruniad, and anyone else they think will give a toss.

And I see the Remoaners still haven’t accepted the will of the people and want us to remain in Europe; they probably don’t want to give up all the cheap immigrant labour they employ. Why don’t they go and live in Europe if they love it so much? We said Leave but it seems they didn't understand the message. Germany needs refugees; they’re probably going to invade somewhere again. They usually do.

Ahh, good the remoaners have got Gobby Geldof and associated clebs and weasels to lead a march through Parliament Square, yes, that’ll convince us all to change our minds and demand an end to Brexit. A march is always a good idea. And those retards flying EU flags at The Last Night Of The Proms. They do know what that’s celebrating, don’t they?

Yet Another One

Yet another C-list Cleb has been caught dressed up in a Nazi uniform in a photograph taken 30 years ago. Cue faux outrage from the professionally outraged libtards; Twitter goes into meltdown, people who once appeared on the telly claim they will never feel safe again. Cue also breast beating and wringing of hands from guilty cleb saying it was all a big mistake and he’ll never do it again and he never meant to offend anyone or hurt anyone’s feelings and he is soooo sorry.

Why doesn’t he just tell them it was all a great giggle and to go swivel and mind their own business because he’s not going to apologise? What are they going to do? Soil their underwear? Organise a march?

For heaven’s sake, who hasn’t dressed up in a Nazi uniform? I do it all the time and nobody complains. See if I care if you’re offended.

I’ve seen this so-called cleb in Borough Market and he wasn’t wearing a Nazi uniform then so maybe he isn’t a member of the NSDAP after all and he was just going to a fancy dress party that night. Perhaps he should have blacked up and gone to the party dressed as Al Jolson then nobody would have reason to complain.

 

25 August 2017

Not A Happy Ending

Apparently, “A Happy Ending” is the new code for someone ejaculating at the end of the session. Unfortunately not such a happy ending for the guy found dead at the open-air SM festival in Tunbridge Wells. Obviously, my invitation must have gotten lost in the post so I didn’t attend.

I can’t see the attraction of it myself.  I always preferred to slip into some dodgy, dingy railway arch which had been turned into a club with slave Ian. Oh, yes, we have heard the Chimes at Midnight, the sights we saw. And then take a chance with the Asian sex-offender posing as a taxi driver to take me home. This is why I always wore a padded glove with two four inch nails poking out of it. That would deter anybody.

But rest assured, should you suffer the indignity of shuffling off this mortal coil while indulging in your happy ending with me, I shall ensure your family are not embarrassed by finding out what you were doing in your final hour. I’ll get Quilp to re-dress you and dump your body in the Thames. Everyone’s happy. I just hope he puts your underpants on the right way round.

Men Never Make Passes

At girls who wear glasses. Oh how we used to laugh at those who were unlucky to have to wear glasses as teenagers. Four-eyes, eh? Hilarious. Well for the first time in my life I’ve had to start wearing reading glasses to read that left wing rag The Mail, so I suppose I’ve got the rest of my life wondering where I’ve put the bloody things. Luckily, I don’t need them to see a big fat plump bottom ripe for caning in front of me, as schoolboy David can vouch for as I gave him a very reasonable 216 strokes of the cane on the bare bottom. I’m nothing if not generous when handing out punishment beatings.

Now where did I put my glasses?

Out Of Africa

Well here’s a fine how do you do and no mistake. We’ve all kept slaves, haven’t we? What’s the big deal these days? I know I’ve got a couple who still visit to go through their paces in their chains and slave collars now and then. And we all know people who we racially abuse and demand foot worship from, surely? I’ve certainly got a couple of visitors who come for that. And there are plenty of slaves in Britain today that are owned by Indian and Middle-Eastern doctors, where would we be without them? The doctors, I mean; for the avoidance of doubt. And where would we be without child labour in East End sweat shops. Why, we’d have to buy all our cheap clothes from the Far East.

But I have to say I do agree with this latest do-good, hand wringing, painfully right-on champion of the downtrodden who’s calling for the pulling down of Nelson’s statue. I’m all in favour of it myself. And it’s always fun to watch someone from the media parade their self-indulgent indignation so good for her.

It is a her, isn’t it? One never likes to ask these days. And "she" has an odd-sounding name. Why not organise a march, dear? That always achieves something.

But I didn’t realise Nelson kept slaves. I know he planted bombs in shopping malls where white people shopped but didn’t he say sorry for that and all was forgiven? And his wife was ever so nice too, running that football team for all those young boys. And all those left wing councils who renamed their council tower blocks and care homes after Nelson.

You can’t trust anybody these days.

And no-one ever talks about Rhodesia now, do they. The Labourites were always banging on about how bad things were down there, seems it must have improved a lot. Kumbaya, eh?

We Wuz Kangz

It just gets better and better from the spendthrift leftard  Beeb. After spending millions of other people’s money to pay themselves and their over rated self-important programme presenters a decent wage, now they’re going to spend an even bigger wodge of taxpayers’ cash to broadcast in pidgin English. But this isn’t on the wireless in the UK; this is to Africa, of all places. Aren’t there any radio stations in Africa? Well I suppose it’s still a bit primitive out there so they need to know what a disaster Brexit will be, according the Beeb.

And why are they wasting tax-payers money broadcasting to Africa in a foreign language. Surely they should be broadcasting in Received Pronunciation? Most of the Nigerians who contact me have an appalling grasp of the Queen’s English, even though they’re finance ministers, company directors of major oil companies, Princes, Nabobs, and what not.  

But then I suppose it’s perfectly natural they do broadcast in pidgin English as most of the presenters are speaking that when broadcasting to Britain, especially on Radio 1.

” Here is the news, and this is Alvar Lidell reading it. We Wuz Kangz N Sheit fam while you wuz in caves. Him dindu nuffin fam. Despite Brexit".

My budgie, Sprout can speak more clearly than these imbeciles. See, this is why I won’t buy a TV licence.

Now let me wait for the knock on the door from the television licence police.

Evil Spice

No, not the forgotten member of the Spice Girls but some supposedly illegal drug HMG allows you to take to keep you compliant. Illegal? Yeah right.

I'm not one to take drugs myself but I like this idea of a new illegal drug called Black Mama, which makes the user collapse into a heap on the floor. Handy for them to be swept up into the paddy wagon I suppose, or into the gutter. And again, it’s handy to go through their pockets to relieve them of any money and mobile phones they might be carrying. Always a good idea to tie their shoelaces together too, in case they wake up whilst you're having a roaf through their pockets.

This follows on from Spice where the user became immobile standing up. You have to admit these junkies are a bundle of laughs. I always laugh at them.

But I can see a great use for these drugs. Prisons are awash with drugs and the prisoners are always causing trouble so why not pass these new drugs on to the inmates. Once they’re comatose, the guards can rearrange them into obscene positions and take a load of photos of them on the prisoners’ mobiles and load them up to Facebook. All prison scum have their own Facebook page; you don’t want to make prison too much of a hardship otherwise it would infringe their human rights. Then just keep pumping them full of drugs and everyone has a quiet life. If they wake up, tell them it’s only 2013, they still have to serve their sentence.

Maid Doris

Let me tell you about Maid Doris. Doris has been kept in chastity since last January, not by me but by Doris’ owner. I should imagine Doris’ sexual organs are about to burst at any moment so probably best not to stand too close. Also, Doris has been turned into a cuckold. How humiliating for Doris to have to watch such things but that’s what she deserves.

During the summer months, Doris is left chained up outside to sleep outdoors. And for leisure, Doris has to keep house and make sure everything’s clean and tidy or woe betide her.

Not Only

The last time, on this site, I wrote “Remainers stay on the beaches and towns of France only to be imprisoned and held captive by evil German Empire.” About those troops fighting in Dunkirk in 1940. Naturally, those troops who stayed behind to fight the Germans were brave and the best of British – and French troops. Unlike the treacherous Remainers of today with their 30 pieces of silver in their pockets.

What have we ever done for Europe? Oh yes, we fought to save their bacon. What has the EUSSR ever done for us? Oh yes, it’s given us contaminated eggs and pork sausages.

But Also

Any of you who know what We Wuz Kangz means should report immediately to your local police station and hand yourself in and confess to hate crime.

 

23 July 2017

Despite Brexit

I’ve been taken to The Shard for lunch. Knoblet, who graciously invited me to tea at the Savoy after nagging him constantly for about a year relented again and this time took me up The Shard. That sounds faintly disgusting, I know, but that’s Knoblet for you and that’s how he termed it. Anyway, despite a dress code stipulating smart and elegant dress, and despite Brexit, Knoblet decided to turn up in some bizarre Maori tee-shirt and a pair of white cricket trousers, which later ripped around the crotch but thankfully it wasn’t spotted by any of the waiters otherwise we would have been out on our ear.

Luckily his penis rings were made of plastic too so they didn’t set the alarm off when he stepped through the security scanner. I’ve been caught out with dear old Ian a number of times at foreign airports with his body ornaments and it was always funny seeing him try to explain the nature of his “chastity device” to scowling and ill-tempered security guards, especially in a foreign language. I still laugh at the anguished look on Ian’s face when the guards thought his false breasts were Semtex. Try explaining that with a smattering of French

I’m glad to report that a bottle of Sancerre only cost Knoblet seventy five quid and I thought I’d better let him have a glass of two so he’d ask me out again. Anyway, I couldn’t drink a whole bottle of wine for lunch.

And the food was delicious too. Highly recommended. I told Knoblet that we must do it again. Just as soon as he gets himself a decent pair of trousers and a shirt and tie. Maybe he can take out a student loan to help pay for it; well nobody pays those back anyway so it’s like a free lunch.

I take it the likes of you know what a shirt and tie is? It’s what your lawyer instructs you to wear for your court appearances.

Doctor Who?

So, despite Brexit, a television character that flies through space and time in a 1960s police telephone box to save the world constantly from some mobile dust-bins has caused disbelief because he’s had a sex change operation and has become a woman. Everybody know this is just a made up story for entertainment, right? Why on earth does anyone think this is real? Because if you do, then I fear you should be locked up in an institution for the feeble-minded. For everybody’s sake.

Knowing the Beeb I’m only surprised she isn’t black-upped, with a gammy leg and wearing a jib-jab, or whatever it is these people wear. And has anyone seen a police telephone box recently? Or any police for that matter.

And I receive yet another threatening letter informing me that “Investigations are being carried out in my area”. Ohh, now I’m really worried some low-life from the TV Licensing Unit will knock on my door demanding entry to look at the television. I don’t know why they don’t stay at home and watch their own telly.

But now I realise why the damned BBC has been hounding me to pay their television tax; they need it to pay all the overpaid Ack-Tor luvvies and clebs. Worth every penny, I think. But not a penny of it mine. At least with Ack-Tors they have to watch they don’t walk into the furniture and they have to remember the lines. Presenters just sit there and read out loud. I’m sure it’s worth £145 of anyone’s money just to listen to them. That’s nearly two bottles of Sancerre at the Shard.

And now they’re up in arms because they want even more. That’s typical of the lefty Libtards running the Beeb. Lefties want fair shares for all providing they’re getting more than their fair share than everyone else.

I don’t know why anyone pays the TV tax nowadays.

More Equipment

Despite already owning most implements to beat the living daylights out of anyone, Prisoner Robert has bought me two more lovely pieces of kit from Quality Control. A new “cock” whip, as he called it, which is heavier and a little more severe than the one I already have. My original one was given to me as a birthday present by Blemish. I remember the look on Blemish’s face when I first used it on him, just after he gave it to me. Happy days! I wonder if Blemish has been released yet. Probably best if he’s still incarcerated.

Robert also bought me a black rubber governor strap, to be used on the hands. It looks really painful for the recipient, not so much for me on the other end of it. Robert is going to be experiencing a torture session of electrics, punishment beatings and cage time. I do hope he’s not a television presenter. I’d better get Maid Doris to clean up afterwards.

Practice Makes Perfect

I’m eagerly waiting for this new film, Dunkirk, to come out on DVD to watch. Am I allowed to say “come out” nowadays? I don’t want Twitter to go into meltdown thinking I’ve made an anti-gay remark.

Let me see if I’ve got the story right: gallant Britain fights off the might of the German Reich and makes it back to Blighty. Remainers stay on the beaches and towns of France only to be imprisoned and held captive by evil German Empire.  Traitors and those who have sold out to the enemy are executed and imprisoned far away. Europeans look towards Britain to save them from the Germans. Sound familiar?

Cross Dressing i-Sisi Boys

I love these photographs of captured jihadis dressed up as women trying to escape from some Arab hell-hole to get back home now they’ve lost the battle. Especially those who didn’t shave off their beards before applying enough slap to clean out the Max Factor counter. No wonder they wear burkhas.

But wait, maybe they’re all running away to get back to civilisation to apply to be new Doctor Who.

 

30 May 2017

Whoops!

Thank you to Paul who pointed out a mistake I made in the date. Obviously it’s 2017 and not 2007 although some of you are probably ten years behind everyone else. I shall give Paul 6 strokes next time I see him for insinuating I made a mistake. I shall give the rest of you 12 strokes for being too daft to see the mistake.  Wake up you dunces.

Now get back on with practicing some algebra.

24 May 2017

Keep Your Hands To Yourself

No doubt these are probably the words you hear whenever the likes of you manages to find a woman to take out on a date but this time, poor Connor should have heeded this advice. During a prison thrashing I gave him, he refused to get up off the bench to complete the next part of his punishment and having unstrapped the wretch, I decided to encourage him up with another whack on the bottom with the prison bat.

Unfortunately at that exact moment he went to caress his cheeks with his hand, resulting in unplanned scream of agony. But don’t worry about me, my hand is perfectly fine. I can use the cane with as much force as usual. Conner might have difficulty writing a letter of gratitude to me or holding anything in that hand for a while, you know, when he goes to the lavatory and so on, but I didn’t feel a thing.

Silence Is Golden

I don’t know why it should be but a small number of visitors coming here cry out and screech they want me to stop beating them with a cane. Usually with the imploration of “Stop! For the love of God, please don’t hit me anymore”. I really don’t understand it. And because I don’t understand I don’t stop.
Why would anyone want to scream? I never scream and cry out when I’m caning someone.

So because of this, I’ve had to invest in even more sound-proofing. Now all is fine. The police won't be knocking on the door to investigate and God isn't going to help you.

Copycat

Talking of caning, I came across a website of some old dear offering a bit of domination and escort work the other day, who happened to have lifted quite a bit of text from my site – the bondage and CP sections especially. Whoever built the site simply cut and pasted the text but unfortunately forgot to delete and substitute my name from one of the paragraphs. Clever.

Do try and be original, dear - oh and by the way, the plural of submissive doesn't have an apostrophe.

Back To The Future

What wonderful, exciting news that voting Labour will take us back to the 1970s. I can’t wait! Especially for everyone to have curly perms again; that is such a good look for everyone although I suppose the usual moaning misery-guts and cry-babies will be complaining about wearing afro hairstyles is cultural approbation even though they (moaners) will be wearing western clothes and shoes, and using western technology.

And the clothes! Everyone will be dressed like circus clowns again. Imagine. The nightmare of 70s fashion.

And we’ll have proper television shows on the telly again such as The Sweeney; not some namby-pamby politically correct police shows with the old Bill weeping and empathising. I used to enjoy The Sweeney, that’s how policing should be done.  “He fell downstairs while trying to escape, guv,” not trying to understand them and appeal to their better nature. Criminals are scumbags, they don’t have a better nature; you don’t need to understand anything else.

And those other old favourites from the Beeb archive like it “It Ain’t Arf Hot”. What was that character’s name the white fella played: Gunga Din? Something like that. And the Black and White Minstrels, who wouldn’t want to see that back on the telly again? And those other two stalwarts of the Beeb, Sir Jimmy and Rolf; classic entertainment for all the family on Saturday night in the 70s.

And proper education and discipline too; at long last. I’m always willing to administer a good hard couple of dozen across the backside of some miscreant youth to teach him, or her, the error of their ways although I haven’t heard back from the Education Minister yet. At least if school teachers taught properly it would save their ex-pupils making a complete idiot of themselves in court. Like that imbecile caught committing an obscene criminal act on the underground; he claimed he did it because it would be “more funny”.

Heaven help us! If he had a brain, he'd be a half-wit. What on earth was he taught at school? “More funny” for heaven’s sake? His left-wing teacher deserves a sound thrashing for that alone.

And that weird looking guy who runs the Lib Dumbs, he looks like Cyril Smith has just interfered with him. That's so very 1970s so no change for the sandal-wearing, urine-soaked, tree-hugging, hand-wringing, beardy lefties.

Now where do I put my mark? On someone’s bottom with a heavy cane, I hope. And of course, the likes of you will probably be happy to put your cross on a ballot paper as it’s just the same as signing your name, I suspect.

The Second Coming

No, not Jesus, you dunderhead, and no, not Bob123 who comes not once, not twice, but three times in quick succession much to the envy of you all.

No, we have another chance to have our greatest ever chief weasel and war criminal Toe-Knee leading us again as he is coming back to save us all from Brexit. That’s because we are all stupid racists he reckons. There’s just no stopping this guy, is there? I don’t understand why this scoundrel isn’t locked up in the Tower and beaten about the head with cudgels by a couple of ex-squaddies, for heaven’s sake. A couple of squaddies who have been hounded by some shyster lawyers and the MOD.

And didn’t he used to use the name Miranda for some reason back in the distant past? Well, we’ll all be saved now. I definitely blame Brexit for this.

You Say Potato, I Say Unnatural

Some dopey American actress has claimed that cucumbers are dangerous. Personally, I find if I slice them up and put them into a sandwich they seem fairly harmless to me. Of course, if you’re the sort who prefers to insert a cucumber into a body cavity then they can be dangerous; especially if you don’t wash it before eating it. I thought I ought to point that out to some of you, just in case.

I have a friend who used to use something called butternut squash to satisfy his depraved craving for sex with vegetables. He used to take it back to the supermarket and leave it on the vegetable counter when he’d finished with it; well you wouldn’t want to cook and eat it would you? It’s almost like cannibalism after you’d been pleasured by it. Naturally, I’d never invite him over for Sunday lunch with my deadbeat friends unless it was for a cabaret act.

See this is why ack-tors shouldn’t really say anything except the lines that someone writes for them. As Sir Larry said, “All you have to do is remember your lines and don’t walk into the furniture” and most of them find that difficult to do at the same time.

How many of these high-principled, right-on luvvies left Hollywood once Don became the Prez, afterwards? Anyone know? They all said they would. But then they say anything they're told to.

 

17 April 2017

Happy Easter

It’s Easter! Another great festival to indulge in eating lots of chocolate and hot cross buns! You’ve got to hand it to the Christians; we certainly know how to enjoy ourselves. And I never worry about Lent, I just give up eating chocolate crème eggs; well I never eat them as they’re disgusting and I never eat Cadbury’s now they’re owned by some Mexican outfit. Not really know for its tradition of being a chocolatier, is it? Mexico? More likely known for ripping the heart out of some unfortunate; and any company that can make cheese string deserves to have its heart ripped out.

Sprout the budgie has again managed to avoid being stuffed with sage and onion and served up with some delicious roast potatoes. I don’t think he’ll ever be big enough to eat so I might feed him to next door’s cat. Luckily I’ve had a succession of maids turn up to clean the house up and remove the guano that’s been scattered about the place quite liberally.

As always at this time of year, as at Christmas, I shall be feeding some of the poor unfortunates who have nowhere else to go and no-one to celebrate Easter with, known as my friends.  Thankfully no vegetarians this year so it’s all meat. If I didn’t have them here they’d probably be visiting some dreadful fast food burger bar for a monkey burger and those vile French fries I’m told they serve up in those places. What’s wrong with thick cut chips fried in lard? Lovely.

And with the holidays comes, yet another, threatening letter from the Beeb demanding I pay towards their upkeep. They always threaten they’re going to send an inspector around but they never do. I hate that, if they’re going to threaten someone, then they have to be prepared to carry out the threat. I’d be delighted to give the inspector a tour of the place to show him around. I might even let him go too.

One For The Memoirs

The other week I met Pete again, who came here over 12 years ago, with his friend Jill. And he could really take a very severe caning. I used a four foot dragon cane on him in the end and he barely flinched. Jill kept telling me to, “hit him harder, hit him harder”. By the end I couldn’t hit him any harder as I was caning as hard as I could. Wow! And the blood spatter, thank heaven the walls are not painted magnolia. Pete was also asked the important question: In or Out. He answered “Out” correctly.

I’ve always felt when I come to write my memoirs I would entitle them “Blood On The Ceiling”.

The Comly Brush

I’m afraid I have some sad news for fans of corporal punishment; I have had to put my large shower brush, named The Comly Brush into retirement. The reason for this unfortunate state of affairs is the many punishment beatings I’ve used the brush for over the past couple of years that I’ve had the brush. It was given to me by a visitor who told me his mother used a similar brush on him when he was being naughty. I suspect she must have used it a lot.

This brush caused dreadful bruising on a bare bottom but was a delight to use. The bruising came up almost immediately. Anyway, punishment beatings can only be carried out with the prison bat in future; the one I’ve got with holes drilled through it which causes blistering.

Nice As Spice

That seems a great new pastime these drug addled imbeciles have devised. Take some synthetic drug called Spice and then slip into a comatose state for the amusement of passers-by.  It’d be great fun to pull their trousers down when they’re in this state or maybe completely undress them and pose them into some sort of obscene posture.  The old Bill won’t bother with them because they’re too busy chasing real criminals like car drivers.

This is also a great way to supplement your income as you can dip their pockets for any benefits money they might be carrying. And it might be the answer to all these cry-baby Remoaners who can’t accept they lost the argument. Simply slip some Spice into their kale smoothie and then when they come to a standstill, they can be thrown into the back of a lorry and shipped off to the continent. When they wake up they’ll probably find they’re being buggered by a gang of gimmigrants. I blame Brexit.

In Or Out


If Die Vierte Reich demand we pay money to leave, just ignore them. What are they going to do? Invade. That hasn’t worked out too well for them in the past.

 

26 March 2017

Tea at the Savoy

And why not? What could be better than spending an afternoon with some favoured servant feeding me cakes and scones with champagne? It’s a much better way to spend an afternoon than giving someone a good hard fisting, for instance. Although fisting does have its attractions, it’s not a patch on being treated to afternoon tea.

Knoblet, the retainer in question, offered to treat me to Tea at The Savoy Hotel over a year ago but only just managed to actually take me last Friday. Well he is a civil servant so he’s used to things taking five times longer than necessary. And you’ll probably be glad to know that I didn’t bugger him in front of the waiting staff although that might well have stopped the lady playing the grand piano.

I arranged to meet him at Charing Cross, as there are lots of odd, suspicious looking people just hanging about, you know the sort: pickpockets, beggars and the like, so he wouldn’t stand out too much. Knoblet decided, for reasons best known to himself to wear a suit; well a suit jacket and a pair of cricket flannels, I think they were. It’s always tempting to accidentally “knock” a jug of water into someone’s lap when they’re wearing light coloured trousers but I resisted that urge. This time.

Anyway, they let us in, much to our surprise.

And I must say it was absolutely delightful; one of the great pleasures of my life. And I’m proud to say we didn’t take any selfies, unlike everyone else who was pulling a duck face pout at the drop of a hat. Don’t you just want to slap those girls pulling that face? Do they think they’re being original because every young woman is pulling that dopey look for the camera?

It was also nice that he didn’t try and run out without paying; unlike slave Gareth who always tried that; for all I know he might still be chained up in The Ivy Market Grill to the kitchen sink washing the heavy pots and pans. Knoblet did wander off to the Gents a couple of times so I don’t know if he was doing a spot of importuning out there.

And the cakes were delicious, very filling but delicious. Much better than Mr Kipling's. But then I doubt the likes of you have eaten anything other than Mr Kipling's.

We must do it again, maybe next week I said to the Knoblet but he apparently has to leave the country urgently. I suspect he might be wanted by the police to help with their enquiries again, most likely.

Lady Chatterley

Another great thing I do is sometimes get invited to work with Lady Chatterley in Marylebone. This is to beat her miscreant slave, Howard, who by coincidence comes from the same town as me; so it’s always a great pleasure to beat the living daylights out of him. She’s a really lovely lady and if you’re allowed out on your own you should try and pay her a visit.

Lost In Translation

It’s good to see a lot of these Sisi jihadi boys are making themselves useful by being used as target practice for anyone with a gun in the middle east but I wonder if they’ve got the wrong end of the stick about this blowing themselves up and going to heaven nonsense. They’re told they’ll spend eternity with 72 virgins but thinking about it, it might well be that these virgins will all be men. After all, it must be very difficult to outrun your brothers and uncles wearing a burkha so finding young virgin girls in the Levant must be almost impossible.

But the guys on the other hand all look extremely ugly and unpleasant with dirty straggly beards; it’s no wonder they have to arrange marriages for these worthless deadbeats. So it’s most likely only the men who are virgins, unless they’ve managed to get to Sweden or Germany posing as fourteen-year-olds in order to rape white women.

So I begin to wonder if they’ve got the virgin bit wrong as well. After all, these are not the brains of the outfit, are they? Otherwise, if they had the slightest bit of intelligence they’d be driving an Uber taxi, wouldn’t they? No, I’ve got a feeling that it’s not 72 virgins they get but I think they’ve mixed up the translation of 72 virgins with 72 vegans. That would make a lot more sense.

I don’t know about the likes of you but anything labelled vegan and halal would be going straight into the bin in this house. They’re about the last thing I want to read on a menu. I think spending eternity talking about halal tofu and mung bean recipes with 72 vegan men is just what they deserve. Can you imagine it when someone breaks wind? Or all of them together?

Whine o'clock

Damn this changing of the clocks business. I had an appointment today, Sunday, for 11.00 with Conner, someone I bugger on a regular basis. Enjoying my morning coffee and foie gras on hot buttered toast, I read in that left-wing rag, The Mail, that the clocks had gone forward for some reason and it wasn’t 9.00 but really 10.00. Luckily, Conner hadn’t realised it too so we agreed on 12.00. Why do we have to change the clocks every six months? We don’t get any extra sunshine and there’s nothing wrong with GMT.

I blame Brexit for this; everything else is blamed on Brexit so why not the clocks going forward? Who’s organising the march? The snowflakes have a march for everything these days. It doesn’t achieve anything but we can all feel righteous and do a bit of virtue signalling. I think I’m going to have to practice my duck face pout.

I don’t normally work on Sundays before you ask.

How long before some dopey left-wing tart in Islington christens their child Remaina?

Brexit

What on earth is taking so long? Don’t argue with them, tell them. They’re the French and Germans, none of the others matter really. They’ll give in and surrender. That’s what they do. They always surrender.

 

19 February 2017

Happy Birthday

Yes, it was my birthday. Well that’s another one over, or burfday as lovable old Nick always called it. It came and went like any other day and I have taken note of those who failed to send a card or present. That would be most of you ingrates.

Well no matter, I have canes a-plenty for you and I also got to play with my sex toy, S’manfa, and I had a nice party here with lots of wine and good friends. And Sprout the budgie survived being covered in gravy and was almost eaten, so all was well. All I needed was someone to clean up the debris afterwards as the kitchen looked like a bomb had hit it.

Note to Maid Doris: do try harder in future to attend Doris, dear, it’s not like you’re coming from the other side of the world, is it?

I always receive a nice greeting from Phil Carvell, every birthday and Christmas, although I’ve never met him but I would really love to. He’s the Chief Enforcement Officer for TV Licencing Bromley and he’s of the opinion I should buy a TV licence to pay for the privilege of watching the BBC’s socialist propaganda output. Well you can put that suggestion where I’ll put your threatening letters should you ever follow up on your promise and turn up on the doorstep to inspect my TV.

You wanna see the TV? You demand to come in and have a look at the TV? Sure, you come in right upstairs, you’ll find the TV tied up in the corner and it’s got a plug inserted in its anus. Where do you want me to force one up you?

2 Kings

Two Kings? Mmm, Edward III and Henry V; they’re my favourites. But what I mean is the 2 Kings Spanking Party to which I was invited some time ago. There I had the pleasure of meeting and caning a woman called Samantha (Jones or James). It was great fun and I have to say she could take a really hard caning, much harder than a lot of the men present. I say men but I use the term loosely. And my friend Mistress Cordelia was there too.

Nawashi

My dear friend Jon, who until recently worked as the rope bondage master, Nawashi Murakawa took me to lunch the other day. We went to Bow Church in Cheapside, home of the Bow Bells. There’s a restaurant, very nice, in the crypt underneath the church; where crypts usually are. No flash of lightening or peals of thunder upon entering a church, but strangely, just before going in, I broke the chain on my crucifix. It’s a Celtic cross that lovable old Nick bought me when I first started going to BDSM clubs in the early 1990s. Nick said it would help protect me.

I first met Jon at the end of 1994 and I saw him tie this woman up and suspend her in Club Whiplash’s Pleasuredome. I was fascinated by it then and I still remember the look of ecstasy on the woman’s face. He was definitely the best at Japanese rope bondage and I'm sorry he's not going to be organising any further bondage festivals; I suppose it comes to us all sooner or later.

Snowflakes Are Dancing

No, not that delightful piece by Debussy you’re all familiar with, unforunately, but all the rabid snowflakes and luvvies up in arms over Trumpety Trump and Brexit. It’s hilarious, or should that be hillairy-us, to watch the great and good frothing at the mouth because they can’t get their own way for once. Well suck it up for the next four years luvvies. Democracy stinks when it doesn’t go the way you want, doesn’t it? Maybe you’ll all be happier living in Venezuela.

Oh, and how many of these do-good leftards have actually left the country after they declared they would all leave the US if Donald got elected? Probably none. Goes to show these ack-tors are all talk, especially when someone else is writing the lines for them. 

Well I for one am more than happy Donald’s become Prez. He’s bringing back torture for one thing and that could only be a good thing. There’s not enough torture of prisoners and jihadis nowadays I believe and I’d be more than happy to help out any time they ask. I’ve been practicing on Martin for the past couple of months, just to keep my hand in. And to keep him on his toes. I use the bastinado.

And we’re still on course for Brexit, much to the Remoaners annoyance.

But wait, our greatest ever Prime Minister, Toe Knee BLiar has joined the fray and told us all, again, that we were too stupid to understand what we were voting for over Brexit! I love this guy. I could so beat the rogue. That’s always a vote winner Tone, telling the audience they’re stupid. We must all listen carefully and take note what this impotent has-been has to say.

Here’s an idea, why don’t the Leave party pay Tony Liar, Geldoff, Ed the Lizzard and Silly Lilly all to go around the country explaining why we’re all stupid racists. That should do the trick and get us out double quick time. Or maybe we should just ignore them and declare war on Germany again.  

Debussy. You never hear The Golliwog’s Cakewalk on the wireless nowadays, do you? I wonder why not? Maybe all those scruffy dead-beat slatterns and harridans should organise a march for that. I’d join that march; I’d wear my golliwog badges.

 

 


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