Welcome to my world?

American pacifist James Zwerg after being beaten by a mob in Montgomery, Alabama in 1960 as part of the Freedom Riders. Zwerg volunteered to leave the bus first upon arriving in Montgomery, knowing he’d be the blunt of the violent crowd’s aggression. He would have died that day if an anonymous black man hadn’t stepped in and saved his life by deflecting the mob’s attention to himself.

American pacifist James Zwerg after being beaten by a mob in Montgomery, Alabama in 1960 as part of the Freedom Riders. Zwerg volunteered to leave the bus first upon arriving in Montgomery, knowing he’d be the blunt of the violent crowd’s aggression. He would have died that day if an anonymous black man hadn’t stepped in and saved his life by deflecting the mob’s attention to himself.

What a touching, yet terribly sorrowful, picture.

What a touching, yet terribly sorrowful, picture.


Prostitution for Cereals 


I love porn. Who doesn’t?

(Maybe the Queen? Ann Widdicombe? Jesus?)

In particular, I love free porn on the internet. You can get your rocks off without having to spend any money. What’s not to like about that? Okay, so most of the stuff on the porntube style websites is about as sexy as a severe case of crabs. But there is the odd nugget of erotic stimulation. You just have to trawl through pages and pages of dross to find it. And that’s what this blog is about. What I find while endlessly clicking “Next Page” and enduring that tedious mix of boredom and disappointment.

I don’t know who or what comes up with the titles for the porn clips on these sites, but it’s certainly not a native English speaking human. Most are very literal and explanatory. Which is the most helpful, I suppose. But there are some that are just plain bizarre. These bizarre ones come in two varieties. Funny ones and nonsensical ones. And I shall share some of them with you good people right now. Because I can. And this is what the internet is for. Oh, and all of the titles in this blog are for gay vids. I might do the straight ones in another blog. Or maybe not.

ALL THE BEST FOR HIS WILLY: I don’t know who ‘he’ is, but clearly he has high standards. MOMENTS OF SELF REFLECTION AND RELIEF: I presume it’s a wank video for middle class people. HOW DOES THAT RING FIT?: Perfectly. You might need to rub it with some grease to get it off, though. CUM ON HIS BREAST: Okay. But maybe he should cut down on the oestrogen injections? Just a suggestion. PAYING PIZZA WITH CUM: I wish I’d known I could pay with that? I could have saved myself a lot of money over the years. THE GOOD OLD AFRO WAY: Ah yes. Classic.

ZAPING AND WANKING: I don’t know what zaping is, but I hope it doesn’t cause chafing. COOKING AND WANKING: Multitasking. I’m impressed. DOC’S MEDICATIVE SPERM: Take twice a day. Swallow whole. BIG BUT LONELY: Awww, come and have a hug. HIS SNAKE MOVES TO THE SOUND OF DRUMS: So his cock loves percussion? HOUSEWORK FOR MEN: I do not want to know what he’s going to do with that vacuum cleaner nozzle, thank you very much. MILLENNIAL COMPUTER DATING CHAOS: January 1st 2000 has a lot to answer for. MOTION IS VERY GOOD FOR HIM: Is it? That’s nice. MAKING GOOD USE OF FAMOUS CREAM: What are you doing with that Anchor squirty cream? Oh god, noooo! 

CHOKING THE SMURF: Gives a new meaning to the term ‘blue movie’. ALWAYS READY FOR SEMEN DONATION: What a guy! HE LOVES FLOWERS: Don’t we all? Although maybe not inserted into the anus. LET’S HAVE A RIDE ON THE GAYBUS: Can I use my Oyster card? WINE TEST TURNS INTO BUTTHOLE TEST: I must go wine tasting with some of my straight male friends. ALBUMINOUS FOOD: Why do I fancy a boiled egg, all of a sudden? SEX = WOODS: If you go down to the woods today, you’re in for a big surprise. Massive. At least 12 inches. WAXING THE CARROT: I’ve never waxed a carrot. They’ve never seemed hairy enough to me.

GIANT THORAX AND JIZZ ADDICT: When is the government going to deal with the high rates of giant thorax addiction, blighting the youth of our country? When?! PLEASE DOCTOR, HEAL ME WITH YOUR CUM: Yep, that’s what I ask him every time I visit my GP. He usually gives me antibiotics. KISS ME GOODNIGHT: To paraphrase the great Carry On quote, kiss your own goodnight… BINGO BALLS: The male equivalent to bingo wings. HE LOVES WANKING AND GEOGRAPHY: Ordnance Survey maps always give me the horn, too. BLAZING WATERS DALMATION ADVENTURES: ???

So there you go. They are just some of the more recent examples of porn titles that have made me giggle or just goggle. Hope you found them at least mildly as silly as I do? And if you didn’t, well fuck you.

And fuck your giant thorax!

NB Title of this blog is also a genuine porn title.

HMM *5th September*

Gosh. Where has the time gone? My last blog post was three months ago? I’m such a naughty boy. And not in a sexy, adorable way…

So. What shall I write about? My favourite subject, sex? Nah. I’m not THAT predictable. Ahem.

How about politics? The Tories = Bah! The LibDems = Wankers! Labour = Pfft! Well, that’s not going to fill a blog, is it?

How about the Olympics? I think there’s probably been more than enough said about all of that, in a gazillion blogs.

How about Twitter? That’s a favourite subject of all of us Tweeters, isn’t it? Hmm, not really got anything to say about it at the moment though.

Okay. This isn’t turning out to be a very interesting or informative blog. Yet.

How about the discovery of evidence for the Higgs Boson? I could talk about the standard model of particle physics and symmetry? But that would ruin my carefully nurtured reputation for being obvious, sex-obsessed and shallow. So that won’t do.

How about Celeb Big Brother? All those desperate, tedious non-entities vying for attention? It won’t be a very informed blog, because I wouldn’t watch that crap if the safety of my testicles depended on it.

What about drinking in the middle classes and how there are an awful lot of functioning alcoholics in the country? Well, that would likely alienate most of Twitter, so I don’t think I’ll go there. (See? I can do controversial social commentary)

*taps finger on forehead, trying to think*

Come on, Dean! Pull something out of the bag.

I know! Knob gags and the proliferation of adult humour in social media.

Oh wait. That’s sex, isn’t it?


Well, I just don’t know. Maybe there’s a reason why I haven’t blogged for months? I’m just boring. Not interesting. Devoid of amusement. A black hole of entertainment. Lost my appeal. Unable to enthrall.

So, anyway. Hasn’t the weather been shit this summer..?

A BIT ANGRY *5th June*

Okay Twitter, the joke isn’t funny any more. It’s gone on too long. Enough’s enough. You need to learn when to stop. So go on. Stop it. Right now. Go on. You’re just being annoying now. For fuck’s sake! Are you going to stop? Yes? No? Hmmm. I see.

What’s this blog about? Do I have to spell it out? Actually, yes. Yes I do. Because I use the official Twitter app on the computer, and it won’t do it properly otherwise. I am of course talking about the dictionary Twitter uses to suggest spelling corrections. The arse-achingly annoying fact that it is an American English dictionary. Even though I am in Britain. And Twitter now has a British office. And British English is a separate entity. And, oh god, argh!

Now, if you’re getting the feeling that I’m a bit miffed about it, then you are clearly extremely empathetic and sensitive. And ball ticklingly luscious, lovely reader. Because it makes my back crunch and my veins throb.

How many times have I had to google the correct spelling of a word, because the way I’ve spelt* it was flagged up with those evil red dots? Realise? Yes, it IS realise. Rumour? Yes, it fucking is rumour. Arsehole? Oh, you most certainly are, Twitter. You most certainly are. Take your American spellings with a zed(zee!), and shove it up your Webster’s Complete Edition.

The thing is, it’s not even the sly push to Americanise our language that really gets my goat. (Well, it does. But there’s more to my rant. And this leads nicely into it. I’m good at this writing thing, aren’t I? Ahem) There is something even more annoying, even more bizarre, than that. When I write a tweet, I am using my computer. And I’m online. Twitter is an internet based entity. So why the blazes does its dictionary not recognise very common, and long used, internet terms? Online? Blog? App? Offline? Meme? LOL? Facebook? iTunes? DM? DM is a fucking Twitter term, which Twitters dictionary doesn’t know. Jeez!

Now I know what some of you are saying. “Why am I reading this shit?” Er, no. What you’re hopefully saying is: “All this checking of spellings will help you to spell better in future.” And that may very well be the case. But I’m having an angry moment right now. So I’m focusing on the negatives. Rants are better that way. (Nice little tip for you, there)

And in the process of writing this blog, my ire has been inflamed further by Tumblr, which clearly uses the same useless piece of crud dictionary as Twitter. Hmm.

So what do I want to come out of this blog? Twitter to maybe respect our unique form of the English language? Yes. To update its dictionary, to include modern technological and internet terms? Yes. To get a vastly overpriced commission to write opinion pieces for a Sunday newspaper? You betcha.


Now, what’s the correct spelling for the term ‘miserable fucking pedant’?

*YES, I’m using the British English past participle of spell, you wankathon spellcheck! 


FREE WIFI? *25th May*

So, my smartphone. Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ve gone on about my wondrous, tempting piece of kit before. And yes, I’ve sunk ever so slightly deeper into its loving, cunning grasp. In fact, I think I may be becoming its bitch. But that’s by the by. I want to talk about wifi in pubs. May I? Would you mind? Yes? Well, this is MY blog, and I’ll talk about what I want. Comprende?

Moving on quickly from the last word in the previous paragraph - what was I thinking? - I’m finding myself playing a rather frustrating game every time I visit a pub. It basically involves looking for a sign, as I go in. Not a burning bush, or birds falling dead from the skies. That would just be ridiculous. I’m looking for the “Free Wifi” sign. You know the one. Black and white. Self explanatory. Full of pizazz. Okay, no pizazz. But wouldn’t that be great? A black and white picture of some jazz hands, to signify wifi? Just me?

When I see a pub that looks nice, not too poncy or trendy, I will head inside. And as I enter, I furiously scan every inch of the door and surrounding glass environs, looking for that sign. Where is it? Is it there, next to the sign telling me I’m not allowed in if I’m not wearing a shirt? No, it’s not there. How about a little lower, by that bit of faded plastic stating the establishment is happy to accept my credit card? No. Not there either. Um. There, by the strangely coquettish opening hours list? Nooooo. Where the fuck is it? Worry starts to set in. Am I going to have to actually talk to the person I’m with? Really?

There it is! On the window next to the door. Right by the sign telling you to fuck off if your dog isn’t purely for guiding.You see, I should probably explain that I don’t do the internet on my phone, through the phone company. 3G? Not on your nelly! I do Pay-As-You-Go, as I don’t have a lot of money. So mobile internet would rack up the pennies far too quickly for my liking. And wallet. Obviously, free wifi is perfect for me. When it’s available. Which it still isn’t in a lot of pubs.

And I suppose this is where the problem really lies. I’m getting used to sitting in a pub not being bored. Well, not so much when I have company. More when I’m waiting for somebody. Or just want to waste some time. I can sit with a drink and peruse Twitter. Surrounded by real life people, I can finally sink my head into the online world of cheesy puns and moaning about the television. Oh, and knob gags, of course. That’s what I call progress.

I rather despise myself that I will actually dislike a really lovely pub, just because it doesn’t have wifi. It could be the most comfortable, warm and friendly free house in the country. But if I can’t google a picture of a root vegetable in the shape of a penis from there, I just don’t want to know. WTF, Dean? Have you become a total wankbucket? I think we all know the answer to that question…

Or do we?

Yes. Yes we do… 

And what’s the moral of this blog? What can we all take away to enrich our lives? If you use the word ‘comprende’, even in an ironic way, you will hate yourself for three and a half hours afterward. That is all. 

SMART? *20th May*

Oh god, it’s happening! Nightmares that have stalked me in my sleep for years, are taking solid form in the waking world. I’ve resisted. Fought the urges with all my being. But I’ve weakened. Am weakening. I fear it may be too late. I may already be lost…

Yeah, yeah, I’m being over dramatic for effect. But it still bothers me. What? What am I talking about? Technology. The dreaded, all-encompassing technology of the modern age. And the trigger for this blog? My new smartphone. It’s a lovely smartphone. Not an expensive one, but a very able phone nonetheless. A HTC Windows phone. It does what it needs to do very well. “So what’s the problem then, Dean?” I don’t hear you ask. Well, I shall tell you dear reader. That is how a blog works.

For years, I have felt a smug superiority whenever I’ve seen someone using a smartphone to take a picture of a shop sign. Or carrying a massive tablet computer, just to play Solitaire on the train. Or looking like a total nutcase whilst walking down the street, talking to themselves, Bluetooth earpiece wedged firmly in their noggin. Or religiously following the instructions of a SatNav, giving it’s instructions in a soulless manner, even when they end up in the middle of the North Sea.

And then I got into Twitter. Oh Twitter. What have you done to me? Social networks were for sad, lonely, pathetic individuals, who deserved my pity and scorn. That’s what I thought. Then I found myself laughing at what people wrote. And being interested in what people were doing with their lives. And caring, CARING, about people I’d never met in real life. WTF? (Yes, I did just use that acronym without any irony whatsoever. That’s how far I’ve come/fallen)

I gave in to the Twitter months ago. I tried to resist it’s gloriously friendly grip, but to no avail. I love Twitter and all the people I follow. Okay, I thought, I’m not that bad. I don’t do Twitter all the time. Just when it suits me. Just when it’s fun. I can say no if I want to. That’s what I thought.


That was Twitter cackling evilly, by the way. (See? I can resist the needless acronym. I don’t have to follow the trendy online crowd. I can use proper words, FTW! Oh bollocks. FML)

Anyways… I have found myself meeting up with tweeters in real life. Gosh darn golly! How wonderful. The not real internet world can actually turn into proper friends in the real real world. Woohoo. But then I go and fuck up with one of the tweetups and miss some people I really, really wanted to meet. Dammit. So what do I do? Do I just arrange tweetups more carefully in future? No. I go and buy my HTC smartphone. So I can always check on Twitter when I’m meeting someone from there.

Even that wouldn’t be the end of the world in itself. But I’m finding myself more and more tempted to play with my phone. I liked the fact that when I wasn’t at home, I wasn’t on Twitter. That seemed reasonable to me. Why should I be like everyone else and be constantly available and in contact when I’m out, doing other things? It always annoyed me when I was out with friends and their head would be bowed over the little glowing screen, laughing at something I had no way of taking part in.

Until now. Within weeks of getting the phone, I’m constantly checking it to see updates. Or if I’ve got a text. Or what the weather is going to be like. Or to change the wallpaper. Or the ringtone. Or to see what that feature does. Oh, it makes the words bounce around on the screen? Exciting…

The final nail in the coffin of my resistance to modern technological ways, was my latest meet up for a drink with a new friend. The fantastic Fenner Pearson. He was running late, I was in the pub early. What to do? Out comes the phone, on goes Twitter, in goes two drinks. Almost two hours and a lot of laughs later, I’m fully converted. That would have been a rather boring and slow two hours of waiting, without the smartphone. As it was, I was quite happy to wait for another two hours if necessary.

So, here I am. A former techno snob. But now a fully fledged techno slave. I even find myself taking pictures of all sorts of strange things, like bins and stairs, just because I can. I can’t look down on other people anymore, because I’m exactly the same as them. Oh god, I just don’t know where it will all end? Please not on Facebook…

sent from HTC Radar (not really)

*Oh, and the blog picture is just an example of some of the ridiculous things I find myself taking pictures of, with my phone. It’s a pair of curtains. 

HAPPINESS *15th May*

A friend of mine recently told me that she liked the way I find pleasure in simple things. Now, I know that statement is ripe with countless sarcastic possibilities, but it actually got me thinking. Do I? And have I always been like that?

Yes. And no.

I certainly love all those moments that make me smile. Or laugh. Or giggle. There seem to be a lot of them nowadays. Stroking a dog. Smelling freshly baked bread. Seeing two people in love, holding hands. Buying a colourful, fun pair of wellies. Listening to the sound of birds and insects in the woods. Pretending to have a conversation with a bread knife…

But I wasn’t always like this. I used to struggle to find happiness in anything. Due to a mixture of growing up too quickly and longterm depression, by the time I was 11, I stopped finding little pleasures in everyday life. Happiness was only something I got from drinking too much at parties. Or smoking a joint. Or anonymous sex. Or books… Oh, lovely books. Little papery flights of fancy. For hours and hours and hours, I would submerge myself in a completely different world, to escape from my own miserable one. That was pleasure for me. Not very simple, I guess.

Then, when I was 24, my first niece was born. I knew I would probably never have children of my own, so I decided I wanted to be a big part of her life, just so I would experience something close to being a parent. After a very long and difficult labour, Rebecca was born by C-section. My mum and I were sat in the recovery room next door to the operating room. It was a hot, sticky day in June. We were waiting on tenterhooks. Then a brief, irritated yelp, and she was here.

The nurse brought her into the recovery room, to do all the shenanigans that they do to newborns. Her dad disappeared off to phone all his family. My mum disappeared off to phone all our family. And the nurse disappeared off to probably not phone anybody. That left me literally holding the baby. This tiny, wrinkled creature. Giving off more heat than a log fire. Blinking up at me, wide eyed and bewildered.

I knew that babies eyes can’t focus at first. So I spoke to her. I can’t remember what exactly, just nonsense. I kept my voice low, so as not to make her hardly used ears hurt. Sweat dripped down my back, under my shirt. I stared into her dark, dark eyes, trying to work out how it was possible to suddenly have a new member of my family in my arms. And then something amazing happened.

A door opened, deep inside me somewhere. A door which I’d had no idea existed. And out of it flooded love. Absolute, unequivocal love. Filling me so completely, there was no room for any other feelings. Love so strong and so certain, it took my breath away. Where did it all come from? For years, I’d not felt a lot of any sort of positive emotions. Then suddenly, I was consumed with a love for my niece that I knew, KNEW, would never fade. Never lapse nor stop. A love I would feel for the rest of my life.


And from then on, I rediscovered joy. I saw the world through my niece’s tiny, beautiful eyes. That cuddly toy has a cute face? Oh yes, isn’t it lovely. That bit of plastic plays a happy tune? How fun. The multicoloured blanket feels soft? So comforting. And then there was her laugh. I spent several years gesticulating, contorting my face and making ridiculous noises, just to see that smile on her face and hear that wonderful giggle.

And my love for both nieces helps to keep life filled with many happy moments for me. They are never far from my mind. When I squidge through mud, I can hear their giggles. When I feed the squirrels in the park, I can see their amazed faces. When I run around like a loon being silly, I can feel their unbridled enjoyment. It seems to me, that the best pleasures in life are mostly the simple ones. Mostly.

This has turned out to be a rather soppy blog, so I shan’t go into the more adult pleasures that make life enjoyable too. Nor shall I talk about how happy it makes me, just spending time with friends. There’s only so much unironic happiness you can read about, before needing to go on a rampage through a town centre to balance it out.

So what lessons have we learned from all these words? Hmm? I think, if you only take one thing away from this blog, it’s that the word ‘unironic’ isn’t hyphenated. That came as a real surprise to me.

AT LAST  *11th May*

This is the third blog I’ve written, but the first I’ve published. The first one was all about my love of Twitter and all the wonderful people I’ve met on there. It became rather mushy and sick inducing, so I binned it. Then I went for a more personal, insightful post. It started well. Happy recollections of times past and people once known. Unfortunately, it quickly morphed into a depressing, moribund monster. Hmm.

The little devil inside me, who whispers into my ear words of determent, is jumping up and down with displeasure right now. Because I have decided to go ahead and write something most days, anyway. Not in the qsmypicture sense. Just for myself. And for anybody who wishes to read it. So there.

I shall treat this blog the same way I treat Twitter. I shall write down whatever’s in my head at the time. It will probably be innuendo laden. And sexually full on. And filled with overemotional stuff. Because that seems to be who I am.

It’s quite exciting, really. Being at the beginning of something new. Like starting out on a hero’s adventure. With an internet connection instead of armour. And a keyboard instead of a shield. And an erection instead of a sword…