Pick and minx

Being of world-renowned status and famousness can be a bit of a bloomin' old chore, I can tell you and just did.

It gets so that one can't even walk down the street without being set upon by hordes of delightful darlings all keen on getting to know me in the flesh (or en flagrantly as I believe the infamous Frenchy nation of lovers-not-fighters has it).

And it's not just the impingement on my freedom either. It is of course entirely unfair on these luscious loverlies - I could not attend to all of them and their many and various wants, not with the best willy in the world. There just isn't enough of me to go round yet.

This regrettably enjoyable turn of events has left me with no option but to instigate - at my own enormous expensivity - a process whereby the parties doing the chasing of me must go through a rigorous selection procedure. This involves a presentation on a subject of my choosing - e.g. "lovin' it up big time with a celebrity" (such as myself), followed by a mock media appearance - asking such questions as "are you prepared to dress up as a woman monkey?", and a panel interview against a strict job description and personification specification.

The successful candidates are then invited onto live television (BBC Radio Six) to take part in a revival of that old favourite 'Blind Date', where they are put through their paces in spoken smut and sauciness.

I, of course, am far too busy a-lovin' and a-so-forth to dirty my hands with this broadcasting processing of the hopefuls, so I am delighted to have volunteered the ever-grumpy Beattie. Well, who else would know my foibles in such glowing detail?

A Personal Statement

Following a long-term campaign against me of enormous proportions I am forced to issue this personal statement of about me.

First off, and no shilly-shallying, I think the picture above says it all for me. A picture paints a thousand words, according to the song, and that saves me an awful lot of input.

Secondly up, on the sharing of rooms with Beattie. I am known far afield and wide away for my tightness and that's all there is to be said about that as a full and total explanation.

Thirdly now, I am comfortable in my own skin and with the smooth skin of other men in my company. It's perfectly natural and I've never been any different.

Fifthly*, there is nothing like a dame, and I cite in my defence Dame Edna Everage and Dame Danny LaRue.

Sixthly, there are plenty of women who could tell you all about my fancy-footwork and fiendish loving techniques, but as a discreet gentleman I'm not prepared to give away any identifying features except for those previously featured.

Now, stop your delving in my hinterland.

*Fourthly deleted as I was advised to exercise my Fifth Amendment rights in the America where my blog reaches unto.

Clearing it up

Bragg/McColl Sexuality lash-up. Lyrics here.

Look, I think this needs clearing up after some allegations were smeared around me on Friday night and now seem to be making their way into common tittle-tattle.

I hereby do confirm for the record that I am strong and warm and wild and free.

That's all you need to know.

Chere Carla

"Absolutely puffing devastated"

I am getting in touch only to offer my deepest and warmest sympathies for all that malarkey and you giving that Shortarse Sarko the boot and all and more, wasn't it?

I know how much you must be a-hurting all over about dumping that little French chap and all that damn misery-making he's put you through with that posse of lovely economic policies. It's shocking and not at all envy-making.

Anyway, I would like you to know that I am currently a single man, more than capable of showing affection and physical stuff and that old rubbish, and would dearly love to stitch another name on my love-blanket - that is if you think you're ready to plunge back into the maelstrom that is getting loved hard and briefly by a chap.

I've always liked the Italian accent, I am a big fan of the name Carla - especially as a spy-type mistress name - and am an admirer of hirsuteness amongst you women lot. I must, though, draw the line at your guitarring and singing.

Get them out the way and we're in business. Unless Cheryl gets back to me first.

No chance of a threesome, I’m guessing? Just to record an album, of course.

RSVP 12th March.

Yours,

Big Bad Col

Dear Cheryl...

I am getting in touch only to offer my deepest and warmest sympathies for all that malarkey and you giving Ashtray the second chance and all and more, wasn't it?

I know how much you must be a-hurting all over about dumping that cheatingest love-rat and all that damn misery-making he's put you through with that posse of lovely laydeez. It's shocking and not at all envy-making.

Anyway, I would like you to know that I am currently a single man, more than capable of showing affection and physical stuff and that old rubbish, and would dearly love to carve another notch on the barrel of my bliss-cannon, that is if you think you're ready to plunge back into the maelstrom that is getting loved hard and briefly by a chap.

I've always liked the Geordie accent, I am a big fan of the name Cheryl - especially as a middle name - and am an admirer of boniness. I must, though, draw the line at your tats.

Get them removed and we're in business.

RSVP 25th February.

Yours,

Big Col

Still on the hunt

Another disappointing flick through the 'Come and Get Me I'm Desperate' pages in Figurines (not Dolls!) Monthly.

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

A supermodel, posing.

It has finally come to the point where I must own myself up that it is possible for such a thing as a glamorous granny to exist.

But it's a right old sad day, ain't innit?

A Denial

1) I have never met this woman.

2) This is all totally made up off her head.

3) I am considering legal action.

4) I am not now or ever have been a dirty dancer.

5) I apologise to this young lady's sister for anything we may have inadvertently done all over her furniture.

And there's an end to it.

Just don't ask me how...

Can I offer my immense and heart-felt condolences for a couple of laydeez of my acquaintance who have between them joyously given birth unto an baby.

No, me neither.

But I say well done! The march of Science will not be halted!

Here's a poem I wrote up especially:

Hell-ooooooo baby
Yooooooooou baby
Neeeeeeeeew baby
Oooooooooh baby

Tender memories

The dream*

It was a hot afternoon,
Last day of June,
And the sun was a demon,
The clouds were afraid,
One-ten in the shade,
And the pavement was steaming.
I told Billy-Ray,
In his red Chevrolet,
I needed time for some thinking,
I was just walking by,
When I looked in her eye,
And I swore it was winking.

She was 31 and I was 17,
I knew nothing about love, she knew everything,
When I sat down beside her on the front porch swing,
And wondered what the coming night would bring.

The sun closed her eyes,
As it climbed in the sky,
And it started to swelter,
The sweat trickled down the front of her gown,
And I thought it would melt her.

She through back her hair,
Like I wasn't there,
And she sipped on a julep,
Her shoulders were bare,
And I tried not to stare,
When I looked at her two lips.

And when she looked at me,
I heard her softly say,
I know you're young,
You don't know what to do or say,
But stay with me until the sun has gone away,
And I will chase the boy in you away.

And then she smiled and we talked for a while,
And we walked for a mile to the sea,
We sat on the sand, and the boy took her hand,
But I saw the sun rise as a man.

Ten years have gone by,
Since I looked in her eye,
But the memory lingers,
I got back in my mind,
To the very first time,
And feel the touch of her fingers,

It was a hot afternoon,
Last day of June,
And the sun was a demon,
The clouds were afraid,
One-ten in the shade,
And the pavement was steaming...

Well, it gives me something to ponder over if I wake up a bit early and have a loose end.

*The reality