Monday, 8 December 2014

Xciting Gifts dot Com


Stuck for ideas on what to get your other half for Christmas? Too lazy to venture outside and tackle the throbbing masses in the department store aisles? Or looking for something a little different to make your gift stand out from the rest? Then worry no more, because gifts to bring a smile to a face near you is what this site is all about.

Gentlemen, with Christmas Day almost upon us, why not take the plunge and treat your girl to a pair of panties.
In terms of originality, we know that panties are nothing new, but with so many colours and designs to choose from, you're sure to find a pair that brings a smile to your lady's face. BLACK, SKIMPY and TRANSPARENT are the key words to tap into our dedicated search engine, together with the size and your credit card number. What woman will not be delighted with such a thoughtful and useful gift?

Chocolate body paint made from 95% cocoa beans and dry-roasted almonds seems too good to smear over your loved one's torso, but this little jar of edible emulsion is nothing like the chocolate paste your kids like to spread on their sandwiches. After showering together, lowering the lights and pouring the champagne, what could be a better way to spend Christmas than covering her curves with this wonderful and wicked pot of paint?



The French are allergic to the stuff - as a Parisian's appalling body odour will confirm - but reports show that soap is here to stay in Britain. Coming in a variety of sizes and scents, this slippery little stocking filler is an ideal way for your girl to wash away chocolate body paint.



  




An on the fourth day, God invented lager. Well, this isn't quite right, but most men will agree that a pint of lager during the festive period is just right to keep things ticking merrily along. I bet you didn't know that the world record for lager consumption on Christmas Day stands at one hundred and eighty-five pints, and that this hideous record was achieved by a man from Leeds in 2013. Lager is here to stay, and coming in cans or bottles, ladies, lager is panties in a glass.


Football is a game which all men love. So during the holiday season, ladies, let your man indulge in his passion, without nagging him to death. He'll be good enough to let you watch the special edition of Strictly Come Dancing, so play fair with him, and let him spent ninety minutes with Wayne Rooney and co.
Merry Christmas!

Wednesday, 26 November 2014

Friday Night




The constant supply of fizzy drinks was a great benefit of having a mum who worked in a pub, but one of the downsides was having to spend Friday nights with our neighbour, who looked after me, whilst mum worked and dad stood on the other side of the bar, getting drunk. I often pleaded with my parents that I was old enough to look after myself, and that our neighbour had her own two kids to look after. But my words fell on deaf ears, and so every Friday night, at about seven o'clock, I was frogmarched to the house next door, where Mrs Green welcomed me, and looked after me, until my mother collected me later in the evening.

The Greens had two cats, who pissed throughout the house, giving it a disgusting odour, that headed directly for my nostrils as soon as Mrs Green had waved my mother off and closed the door behind me. And if the smell of feline urine wasn't enough to leave me feeling sick, the smell of whatever it was the family had eaten, just before my arrival, certainly did. But there was no escape from the house from hell, and after I had managed to get use to the terrible smell, I was forced to spend the evening playing Monopoly with Mrs Green, and her two sons, whilst Mr Green sat in front of the television, drinking bottled beer, whilst watching something that made him laugh occasionally.

Cats pissing, playing games and drinking beer - when Tony Joy was a young boy in need of a good hiding.

Extract from "Dad drove a bus" - out now for Kindle via Amazon

Sunday, 16 November 2014

The Platform


The sleepers went years ago
For firewood and missiles
The panes were smashed from the beginning
Replaced, replaced and no longer replaced
The bench was unbolted
The booth was attacked
The clock was stolen
The toilets were pissed in
The canopy was cracked
The posters were torn
The steps were pissed on
The bins were booted
The rails have resisted
The weeds have run wild
The rainwater comes in
And still we find things to do

A tattooed beast sprays his poem
Over the toilet walls
A cocky lad draws up phlegm
To fire in the air
A pretty girl takes a six-incher
From a small boy
An ugly girl laughs and swears
She's seen it all before
The boy takes vodka
The pretty girl is tired
The small boy is proud
The cocky lad is tired
The rails have resisted
The weeds have run wild
The rainwater comes in
And still we find things to do

(c) Luke Ryman. November 2014.

Tuesday, 4 November 2014

A Plumber Called Deano

There's a plumber called Deano - he's young, rich and quite good looking.
Then there's his mate, Phil - he clings to Deano because Deano is the one with the money. Phil likes cheeseburgers, drinking lager and having a good time.
And what about Sarah? Well, she's common and vulgar, she wears supermarket clothes and she drinks vodka and orange.
And finally there's Clare - Clare Green, from Canterbury - who is Deano's long-suffering girlfriend.

Clare hates Sarah but tolerates Phil.
Deano loves everyone, because that's the sort of guy he is.
Sarah loves herself.
Phil loves double cheeseburgers.

"Welcome to Normandy!" shouts Deano, as the four friends arrive at their gite, which Deano has hired for their two-week holiday.

The girls aren't impressed but Deano is sure that a good time will be had by all.

Just what will Clare do to amuse herself in a village that time forgot?
Where will Phil find his precious cheeseburgers?
What will Sarah make of the locals?
Why has Deano got his eye on the girl with the guitar?

Find the answers, take a trip around Normandy and laugh a little in "But Bloody France!" - the first of three short ebooks, out now on Kindle via Amazon.

Monday, 20 October 2014

Swearing in Private


We shared a bottle of white Bordeaux – very dry and perfectly chilled - as we sat side by side, with me giving her a detailed account of my first day at The National & American Biscuit Company. It had all started so promisingly, I told her, as I swept shit from the floor of the warehouse and enjoyed coffee with Craig and his gang.

I refilled our glasses, and then I continued, telling Jill about Smallcock's annoying habit of calling me the New Boy. We both agreed, as I temporarily abandoned my lover, to get a second bottle of wine from the fridge, that Smallcock was a cunt. This was one of the great things about Jill. I could freely use the word cunt, fuck and bastard, and she wouldn't be annoyed. She even referred to some of her own colleagues as fucking cunts and mother fuckers. It made me chuckle to hear a woman use such phrases, although our foul-mouthed rants were always confined to our home, and never aired in public. Fat Mary, she thought, was obviously a frustrated woman, who probaly lived all alone, and hadn't fucked for years. I agreed with Jill's assessment of the bitch from the cookie production line, and told Jill that a man would have to be seriously inebriated to even think about fucking that.

Extract taken from "4 Years in London" - an ebook for kindle by Luke Ryman.

Sunday, 12 October 2014

4 Years In London





Tony and me are in our mid-forties, but we were acting like a pair of brainless teenagers. That's no way for a grown man to act, and that's no way to live. I suppose he's jealous of Jill, because she has driven a wedge between him and me. And now I have a comfortable life, in Jill's tower block home, whilst he has our flat all to himself, and nobody to speak to. I think Jill would like me to detest Tony, but just because he was a bad influence on me, and was happy to see me ruin my life, that's no reason to hate the man. After all, I'm an adult, and I'm as much to blame as Tony if my life was going off the rails...

... By the time I made it to the factory I was drenched, with the grey London sky having shown no mercy to a poor man who was looking for a job, and who wanted to make something of his life – if working in a biscuit factory could help me achieve my wish. I looked at my shoes. They were caked in mud and grass, and looked nothing like the well-polished footwear I had been wearing when I had left home. My trousers were equally dirty, and my white shirt looked like I had dragged it through the rainy streets that had eventually brought me to the factory gates. I was cold and uncomfortable, and as the wind decided to batter me sideways, I took shelter from the weather under a tree, which stood all alone at the entrance to the factory, and looked out of place. I looked around me. It WAS the only tree to be seen on the industrial estate where the factory was located, and it brought some much-needed colour to an otherwise very grey and dull place, which up to that point I had never seen before...

...I didn't shower. I felt too depressed and tired to bother with such a trivial chore. Instead I smoked a cigarette and drank two cups of coffee. In the fridge were cheese sandwiches and a slice of apple pie that Jill had wrapped in plastic film, ready for me to take to work, so that I would have something to eat, at what she had jokingly referred to as half-time. I took my lunch from the fridge and sniffed. Fucking cheese sandwiches. That's what my life had become. I looked at the clock on the wall. It was four o'clock. It was time to go. I felt ill and wanted to empty my bowels on the kitchen floor. I wanted to go back to bed. I wanted to watch the television. I wanted to fuck Jill. I wanted to do many things – except go to work.


Extracts taken from "4 years in London" - an ebook for kindle by Luke Ryman

Thursday, 2 October 2014

Football Forever!

Ooh la la

Online dating has never been so much fun, and as you email your application to join BOYS & GIRLS FOREVER, you only hope that your first potential partner resembles this delightful example of womankind.

The membership of this elite club is a thousand pounds, but who cares? This will be money well spent if you end up with a beauty like this.

So off you trudge to the Plough & Harrow public house - a delightfully stinking pub set back off the main road which cuts through Leeds like a knife through butter, for it is here that Jenny C, aged 26, with no children, has opted to meet you.

You can understand Jenny's logic. After all, you're a complete and utter stranger, so she wants to feel secure when she meets you for the very first time.

In your flat, in a suburb of Leeds, you have believed that Jenny C, aged 26, with no children, will be bursting with all the right signals, she will be refined and she will be wearing very sexy lingerie. You have doused your skin in very cheap aftershave, you have picked your nose clean, you have put on matching socks and you have told yourself, in front of the bathroom mirror, that the moment for true love to enter your life has come.

The Plough & Harrow is heaving with unemployed bricklayers and greedy plumbers, but after pushing your way to the bar like a beast in search of its prey, you order yourself a pint of lager. This, you tell yourself, is what REAL men drink.





You scan the sea of faces for HER, for it is HER that you have come to dazzle with your wit and charm.

A tattooed beast sends your pint of lager flying, as he wades into a crowd of rowdy football fans. You curse your rotten luck and want to cry, because your new suit smells of Carling Black Label, and the damp patch over your trousers gives the impression that you've urinated in your underpants.

What will Jenny C make of this? You now resemble a drunken yobbo who can't control his bladder. You start to cry, and weaving your way through the crowded pub, like a defeated gladiator, you ask God why did it have to happen to YOU.

And then you cross, like ships in the night. You instantly recognise Jenny C, and as she takes you by the hand, a warm feeling fills your lager-stained trousers.

True love blossoms that very night, but after downing eighteen pints of strong lager, before leaving the pub, you decide that Jenny C is no match for Arsenal versus Tottenham, on the pub's wide-screen TV.

Jenny weeps. You belch. She feels sad. "Come on yer bastards!" you cry, as Tottenham rush at Arsenal's goal.

In another life, you would have been happy together. In this life, football is the only thing that you want - morning, noon and night - as well as a refund from BOYS & GIRLS FOREVER and another pint of lager.