Posts Tagged ‘funny


The Sound of Music – the Nuclear War special edition with lyrics

The first time I watched the Sound of Music, I was seven and genuinely perplexed as to why such a smashing young nun would fetch up with an octogenarian with a whistle fetish.

As I grew older, I realised why. He had a bloody great big house.

Last night, having been strong-armed to watch the Sing-a-Long version of The Sound of Music at the theatre with my daughter, I found the tables had turned. I was  actually LUSTING after Captain Georg Von Trapp and his long, hard whistle. My hills were alive. I wanted him to ford my stream, climb my mountain and add certain of my body parts to his list of favourite things.

Ill blow your whistle, Captain, oh yeah. Ill blow it real nice

I'll blow your whistle, Captain, oh yeah. I'll blow it real nice

Even though – and perhaps because –  his name is pronounced Gay-Org ( for those readers under the age of 25) I had suddenly discovered Captain Von Trapp’s allure. Definitive proof that the portrait ageing on my behalf in the attic affects only my body and not my mind – I may look like a 22-year-old glamour model, but inside I have the mind of a wizened 37-year-old. It’s like that Benjamin Button film in reverse. I think – I haven’t seen it.

While innocently looking for  red hot pictures from the Von Trapp’s honeymoon online, I happened upon the BBC’s plans to maintain public morale in the event of a nuclear disaster which involve none other than Gay-Org himself. Academic Dr Ian Bradley revealed the in-bunker entertainment for the dignitaries, celebrities and brown-nosers stashed underground while the rest of us are burning to death in the streets: “Shortly after the siren sounds, we can expect to see and hear Julie Andrews,” he said. Along with the three other riders of the Apocalpyse, presumably.

On the plus side, commoners like you and I (this is a vast generalisation, apologies to dignitaries, celebrities and brown nosers reading) will not have a place in one of the 20 bunkers around the UK that will be screening The Sound of Music on a continual loop for 100 days. On the minus side, that’s because we’ll probably be dead.

For those of us left above ground, the most sensible thing to do will be to reach for the Government’s Preparing for Emergencies booklet, which advises us not to panic. Not panicking is especially easy if you have been reduced to dust by an atomic firestorm.

If you’ve made it through the initial blast, and are simply waiting to vomit up your liver when gamma rays permeate through the double glazing,  you can always summon up a little of the BBC’s plan to inject the feelgood factor back into your life by singing the songs from The Sound of Music yourself.

I can see it now, the family huddled around grandma, who is still burning brightly, and trying to remember the lyrics to Favourite Things:

“Toxic rain on babies and weeping sores on kittens, bright orange fireballs and radiation-proof mittens, deformities caused by rogue DNA strings…these are a few pesky nuclear war things.

“Incinerated ponies and crisp quick-fried poodles, sirens and screaming and living off Pot Noodles, wild geese that fly with scorch-marks on their wings…these are a few pesky nuclear war things.

“When the bomb hits, when black rain falls, when I’m feeling sad, I simply remember Gordon Brown’s underground, and then I don’t feel so bad…”

Really, though, check out the Von Trapp fox, ladies. All aboard the time machine, I’m heading for the hills.


What are the most disturbing search engine terms people use to find your blog?

I am sure I am not alone in marvelling at the many and varied ways people chance upon the posts you have committed to the world wide web.

I say ‘marvelling’, I mean ‘despairing’. There are lots of perverts and voyeurs out there, my friends, and most of them are dropping in to see me in the hope of some hot vibrator/breasts/knickers/dwarves/vegetable action. I am glad not to let these valued viewers down.

Apologies should, however,  be extended to all those who arrive in my corner of cyberspace hoping for recipes on the basis that I mentioned cooking, once, about six weeks ago. On this note, I must advise that under no circumstances should you try and use a carrot vibrator in your slow cooker recipes. They are surprisingly tough, even after marination.

For your delectation, these are a selection of the people you are sharing these pages with. Possibly right now. And you’re the only one with both hands on the keyboard.

1) Black women without knickers

2) Women with black knickers

3) Dwarves with big breasts

4) Flooded black knickers dwarves

5) Vegetable vibrator sexy

6) Vibrator that talks back 2 u

7) How to find g spot women orgasm

8) Madonna nip slip hot picture

9) Map of g spot

10) Carrot sex video

I do wish Mum would stop hassling about the carrot sex video. A promise is a promise, and she should know I always follow through (wait until the harvest, Mama! Then the carrots will come, oh yes, they will come).

Do you have any disturbing search engine terms to share? I have no prize, other than my eternal and life-prolonging love.


giving barbie heroin to the kids – is it wrong to drug children?

The hangover from Scarlet Fever lurks in the household like a persistent stalker outside the bathroom window.

Headaches abound, and everyone is clamouring for drugs. Everyone apart from me, of course, because I am harder than a diamond and actively enjoy suffering because it reminds me how awesomely brave and stoic I am, like Joan of Arc, but with better hair.

At times like these, I thank all that is holy for Barbie heroin, mother’s little helper, also known as junior paracetamol.

"Mummy says this will have to do until Mr Big scores some of the pink stuff."

Ah, the crimson-hued bringer of peace, the glittering syrup of silence, the strawberry-flavoured elixir that makes hurty tum-tums go bye-byes at bedtime.

It came as somewhat of a blow, therefore, to read a report from the Food Commission revealing that a huge number of junior medicines are jam-packed with a cocktail of synthetic dyes, preservatives and sweeteners, all of which are banned in food and drink made for young children.

Apparently, junior paracetamol isn’t extracted from organic pomegranates, the glitter isn’t fairy dust and when we give them a painkiller, we might as well be injecting them in the eyeballs with amphetamines or passing them a crack pipe (as if! That crack is all mine).

A conspiracy of silence surrounds the administering of infant paracetamol. Parents who would rather gnaw off their own arm than give their children sweets will cheerfully funnel neon pink numbing sparkle juice into their offspring at the merest hint of an injury or an ache.

For all those parents confused about the difference between additive-riddled sweets and additive-riddled junior medicines, I have compiled an at-a-glance guide.

Sweets are:
(a)     The devil’s own work and single-handedly responsible for the rise in childhood obesity, diabetes, tooth decay, gun crime and global warming.
(b)    Bad because they make Tilly hyperactive if she so much as SNIFFS a Starburst.
(c)      Ultimately pointless because in time, Tarquin and Jemima will actually prefer dried kumquats and candied beetroot to a packet of Haribo or a bag of space dust.

Junior medicines, on the other hand, are:
(a)     A bloody Godsend. Put your thumb over the ingredients label and pour a spoonful would you? EastEnders is on in 10 minutes and I can’t hear the telly through the screaming.


National Carrot Day! Celebrate with my vegetable porn!

In these dark times of recession and gloom, we need carrots more than ever (literally, if we are to believe our grandmother’s claim that they help us see in the dark).

Like an orange beacon of hope shining in a sea of misery and mire, the carrot stands for all that is good and honest in the world. I only wish I liked the bloody things, but they turn my stomach every time I force the kids to eat them at gunpoint. Still, in the spirit of bringing light into the darkness, and as it is National Carrot Day today, I thought we could celebrate the world’s second favourite root vegetable together.

Yes, I know they’re not as good as potatoes – let’s get it out there before anyone else does. But answer me this: can potatoes turn your urine orange? No, they cannot. Are potatoes the national vegetable of the Dutch Royal family? No. Did the Anglo-Saxons use potatoes as a medicinal drink to ward off the devil? No (and they wouldn’t have even if they had access to a time machine because potatoes are notoriously redundant in the battle between good and evil).

Below are some of my favourite carrots. One is a picture of a carrot I OWN! There is a carrot-based prize for whoever can identify the Womaninblack’s personal carrot:

1) DID YOU KNOW? The Greek soldiers who hid in the Trojan Horse ate plenty of raw carrots to give themselves constipation.

Go on baby, give me all that lovely Vitamin A

"Oh yeah baby, give me all that lovely Vitamin A, give it to me good."

2) DID YOU KNOW? Scientists are working on bio-fuel made from carrots. It would take 6,000 carrots to drive for a mile – a pack of around 12 carrots costs me about 50p and I generally drive around 10 miles a week, so that makes my weekly fuel budget a wallet-friendly £2,500. Thanks, carrots!

Lauretta Bobbit had thought through her husbands dinner

Lauretta Bobbit had thought through her husband's dinner

3) DID YOU KNOW? Carrot vibrators are actually not made of real carrot, but rather a polymer substance called ‘IntimateSkin’. This version has a light up tip, which is useful AND reflects the natural qualities of a carrot, which are famous for helping you see in the dark.

Tired of raiding the fridge before bed?

Tired of raiding the fridge before bed? Wish your vibrator was also a torch?

4) DID YOU KNOW? Dream dictionaries, recognised by scientists as being 100 per cent factually accurate, state that if you dream of a young woman eating carrots, you will enjoy an early marriage and give birth to lots of children. EVEN IF YOU ARE AN OLD MAN! Fact.

happy carrot

Oh look! It's a root vegetable that looks exactly like a carrot!

5) DID YOU KNOW? The Celts used to refer to carrots as “the honey underground”. This is where the myth began that carrot cake was anything other than a dreadful idea cloaked in cream cheese icing.

Jocasta! Stop crying!

"Jocasta! Stop crying or there'll be no carob for afters!"

6) DID YOU KNOW? More than 139 per cent of British schoolchildren think that carrots grow on trees.

This has never happened to me before...just give me a minute...

"This has never happened to me before...just give me a minute..."

7) DID YOU KNOW? Name dictionaries, which are only three per cent less reliable than dream dictionaries, reveal that if your surname is Carrot, you will find your greatest joy expressing yourself creatively and not being held back by The Man and His Rules.

Carrots are surprisingly political - and good grated into a salad

Carrots are surprisingly political - and equally good grated into a salad

8) DID YOU KNOW? The world’s longest carrot was grown in 2007 and was a veg-tastic 5.839 metres long. It would have powered a bio-fuel car for around 249 metres.

Ok. So you're only interested in octuplet HUMANS, right? Racist.

9) DID YOU KNOW? In the 1870s, Iranian men used to drink carrots stewed in sugar to increase the quality and quantity of their sperm. This may, or may not be behind the legend of the ‘night vision prostitutes’ in Iran at around the same time in history.

In Britain, it is acceptable to dress as a carrot at funerals

In Britain, it is custom to dress as a carrot at every third funeral you attend

So – did you spot my carrot? Do you have a carrot-related story to share? Do tell.



Still looking for the G-Spot? Here’s why you can’t find it

Like Bigfoot, the Abominable Snowman or the Loch Ness Monster, scientists are now telling us that the G-Spot doesn’t exist.

This must come as welcome news to anyone for whom searching for the elusive G-Spot has always been, for want of a better phrase, a wild stab in the dark.

Scientists working at the University of Sheffield have revealed there is no evidence to support the existence of the G-Spot which was ‘discovered’ by German gynaecologist Dr Ernst Grafenberg decades ago. My, that must have been a popular degree course.

I always thought a woman’s ‘seat of pleasure’ was a chair positioned in front of The Wire season three, but according to Dr Grafenberg, it’s actually a tiny, nerve-packed area offering a sexual punch second to none.

The search for the G-Spot has been similar to that for the Holy Grail, Noah’s Ark or the key to the shed which was last seen in 1993 near the broken umbrella in the hall; pointless, time-consuming and ultimately fruitless.

Generally, heterosexual men fall into one of three camps – those who pride themselves on being the embodiment of The Joy of Sex, those who read Cosmopolitan once  and think this qualifies them to know what women want and those who believe pleasuring a woman involves buying her a new vacuum cleaner.

The first group will not let you leave their room of seduction until your G-Spot has been found and pinpointed on an exact map of your body which they have covered in highlighter pen and plastered with Post-It notes. Damn it, you are going to ENJOY this sex. Right now!

Youre not leaving until I find out which one of these is your G-Spot

You're not leaving until I find out which one of these is your G-Spot

In fact, this may be how the myth of the G-Spot emerged in the first place.

Bored into a state of almost catatonic compliance, Dr Ernst’s wife suddenly realised that if she pretended he’d hit the internal jackpot then she might be able to go back downstairs and have a nice cup of tea and a piece of shortbread. Little did she realise that she’d condemned the rest of womankind to a lifetime of fruitless excavation with the sexual allure of a smear test.

Group two are by far the most common of the three – during the honeymoon period of your relationship, the bit where you still find the fact they trim their toenails with their teeth alluring, they might make a couple of attempts to get out the compass and ruler to make a cursory search for your ‘seat of pleasure’. Then, showing great common sense, they will give up.

The third category of men would probably gnaw off their left leg before they did anything other than recreate the sex scenes in the BBC’s Walking With Cavemen series. Foreplay for them involves clubbing women over the head and dragging them back to their pile of skins.

Surely for all those smug couples who claim that on the night they discovered the G-Spot a chorus of angels appeared towing a rainbow over the bed, the news that they’ve been getting worked up over an imaginary erogenous zone must come as a bit of a blow.

Personally, I find it hard to get too upset at the G-Spot’s demise, because you can’t miss what you never had, or that no one ever found, or, indeed, bothered to look for with any degree of enthusiasm.

In my experience, the men I have encountered along life’s highways and byways find it difficult enough to find  a huge pack of nappies in a  supermarket; their chances of finding a minute spot of questionable existence without benefit of large signs, helpful assistants and a tannoy system is negligible at best.

By widening the search to a G-Zone, scientists have offered men a fighting chance of being in the right area. Had they broadened the field to “somewhere below the neck and above the knees” it would have been even better.

So the G-Spot is lost, possibly forever. Although of course, you know what will happen now, you spend forever searching for something and then it just turns up when you’re least expecting it. Probably down the back of the sofa.

* The Woman in Black apologises for her two-day absence. The ‘G-Spot Workshop’ took somewhat longer than she had anticipated.


A talking vibrator – every shade of wrong in the sex toy rainbow

One Valentine’s Day, a friend of mine was given a ‘Talk To Me’ vibrator by a paramour keen to demonstrate his sexual liberation. As all ladies are aware, nothing says: “I love you” like being palmed off with a piece of plastic and then being expected to go away and make it work ourselves. You might as well just give us a dustpan and brush or a washing up brush and be done with it.

The vibrator had a heart-shaped controller with record and play facilities meaning it could be pre-programmed with a message that would play at seminal (so the wrong word) moments to “heighten the excitement”. Or cause you to make an ultimately very shaming phone call to the police, one of the two.

For those without any imagination whatsoever, the vibrator’s manufacturers made the following suggestions for appropriate phrases you could record for your loved one, such as “I love you baby” or “ooh honey, you look so hot”.

More terrifying than childbirth

More terrifying than childbirth

However, as figures reveal that most women buy their own vibrators, there’s more than an outside possibility that the only voice you could persuade to leave racy messages on a sex toy is your own, and when I last checked, leaving yourself dirty voicemail was as socially acceptable as wearing a hollowed-out baby seal as a hat.

I suppose, though, that for authenticity’s sake, you could record yourself saying out loud the things you might be thinking if you were with a flesh and blood partner: “have you put the bins out?” or “did I remember to tell you that your mother called? She’s checked herself into rehab again”.

Or maybe you could record your favourite celebrity from the television. Noel Edmonds on Deal or No Deal, perhaps (cockney rhyming slang joke: “It’s the banker!”) or maybe the music from CrimeWatch to perk yourself up a bit.

You could try and teach yourself a foreign language. Or remind yourself to pick up the dry cleaning – we women are adept at multi-tasking, I see no reason why we can’t make our orgasms really WORK for us.

By the way, the message left for my friend (and yes, it was a friend. Or was it a friend of a friend? Or was it a dream? I must move away from the photocopier) got somewhat lost in translation.

Rather muffled while in use, she thought it said: “I’d love a cup of tea” when in fact it said something about loving her cu…I’ll leave it there. I have young children and every time I curse a fairy dies. Or something.


Think big breasts are fun? Try owning a pair like mine

Believe you me, larger bosoms are a mixed blessing. From Katie Price to Dolly Parton and taking in Ann Widdecombe along the way, if you sport a cup size above DD it’ll often feel like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. Or your ribcage, at least.

Having a big bust is a bit like being a dwarf, having no hair or being very fat: it’s an open invitation for people to offer you the benefit of their opinion about something that is none of their business whatsoever. I have had complete strangers ask me if they can ‘have a feel’ on the basis that they’re not convinced my twin assets are God’s gift, rather than the result of a surgeon, a large cheque and a bicycle pump.

On the whole, I’ve found that women get far more het up about hooters than men: worrying about whether they’re too big, too small, too lop-sided, too many miles down their journey south or too damn magnificent for this world (or is that just me?). Men normally have a far less complicated approach to breasts: they like them, they like looking at them and they wish we’d wear wet t-shirts a little more often.

Let’s put it this way: I have rarely had a conversation with a man along the lines of whether I am betraying my gender because I’m wearing a low-cut top. Yet recently, in a monthly style magazine, a female fashion writer stated that cleavages and large bosoms were ‘out’. This, of course, for those of us who aren’t stuffing socks in our bras or are Kerry Katatonic-like yo-yo plastic surgery addicts, is quite bad news.

Short of strapping myself into a surgical truss, I’m stuck with my chest until the day I shuffle off to meet my maker. Flaunt it and I’m ‘out’, cover it up and somehow it looks even bigger or worse, transforms into some kind of monstrous ‘uni-boob’ shelf you could rest a cup of tea on.

And look at the fashion advice those of us with melons rather than grapes are expected to embrace in an attempt to “minimise a larger chest”. “Large handbags tend to draw attention away from the bust and make your breasts appear smaller in relation to the sheer size of the bag,” suggests one fashion writer.

Fabulous: as if carrying a huge set of Eartha Kitts around all day, every day, isn’t enough, now we’ve got to carry a suitcase to offset our rack as well – it’s a fast track to a dowager’s hump by the age of 30.

In my experience, larger-chested ladies have the choice of working three looks: (a) nursing earth mother (b) blousy trollop or (c) imposing matron/nit nurse.

Wear a v-neck and half the population will address any conversation with you to your chest, wear a polo-neck and you’ll look as if you’re about to stick a thermometer up someone’s rectum. Sports bras make you look like an extra from The Return of the Mummy, opt for the no bra look and discover that your chest keeps moving for a good ten seconds after you’ve stood still.

Just to add insult to injury (literal injury if you try jogging with the no-bra option) retailers such as Marks and Spencer charge us more for bigger cup sizes claiming that the ‘specialist work’ required to make a buxom bra justifies the price hike. They’re talking about all that scaffolding and the hydraulics, I expect.


You do the shake and vac and keep the corpse intact…

A Norwich man accused of murdering his girlfriend and then living with the corpse for six days is said to have used Shake and Vac to cover up the smell of her decaying body.

Claire Roberts died after being strangled for up to five minutes, a court in Cambridge has heard. Paul Hubbard, 39, denies killing the 28-year-old at the flat the couple shared.

When police eventually discovered the body, it was covered in a light dusting of Shake and Vac.

I feel very sorry for Ms Roberts, who met an untimely end at the hands of a lunatic, but I have to say that Shake and Vac comes out of this looking very good. I used S&V when I was a cleaner and was instructed to by my employer, and frankly I’d say it was a toss-up which smells worse, a decaying corpse or the product itself. That said, companies are always looking for a new demographic to sell to, and I think this court case could offer the makers of S&V a whole untapped target market: psychopaths.


Search engines prove those frozen lake scenes in EastEnders really were rubbish

Visitors to my blog have surfed in after making the following two searches: ‘EastEnders frozen lake rubbish’ (nail on the head) and ‘Black Women chocolate analogies’ (I’m not going there).

I, for my part, am going out. How long can I sit on one Diet Coke without anyone noticing, do you think?


Celebrity Big Brother lookalike, Batman Dark Knight soundalike

Two thoughts strike me after watching The Dark Knight on DVD and Celebrity Big Brother on C4 yesterday.

1) The Dark Knight, aka Christian Bale, uses a voice changer so that no one knows he is actually Bruce Wayne. I’m not sure if ‘Whispering’  Suzy Branning on EastEnders has one too, but it sounds like she and Batman were separated at birth.

2) Another Christian (name, not denomination, not that I’m judging or anything), this time Terry Christian on Celebrity Big Brother, bears a startling resemblance to Kevin Eldon, a comedian who was in Nighty Night and Big Train. The resemblance is purely physical: I can watch Kevin Eldon and be entertained, for example.

On The Dark Knight: I didn’t really get it. And I stopped trying to after that bit where they’re chasing around in trucks which I assumed, wrongly, was the film’s high-octane finale. If only. Heath Ledger was good, although I’ve personally paid for far more chilling children’s entertainers to perform at my offspring’s parties and THEY could make balloon animals.

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