Honey I made a mare orgasm
Flicking over from the football I arrived at a programme propagating case studies about bestial acts with animals. Despite the narrator’s familiarity as serious Art History buff Matthew Collings this seemed like an extended spoof, on rustic American values maybe. But soon reality impinged – Channel 4 rarely commits money these days to adventurous new comedies and ‘Animal Passions’ was for real. These people mess all over the Your Dog/Horse & Groom mask of animal-human relations. In kind C4 obliged with soft-focus images of their objects of desire, though the music veered towards ‘weird’ leftfield techno to remind us what we’re dealing with here.
The programme centred on zoophiles who were unsurprisingly mainly American hicks isolated on big farms where no body can see their sex magick. Luckily these days t’internet can unite these freaks, and that’s how one couple featured hooked up. Generally we were talking about females receiving it from dogs, ladies and men sucking off horses, ladies and men getting it from horses, men giving it to horses. One woman was fat beyond hope, another wore grey-tinted spectacles, one guy a young mulleted lover of the stallion’s bite on his back. Like pederasts or Man U fans their activity had often been kept secret in their normal nuclear families, until it became easier to stop living the lie and give into their desires.
By the second break those images and the titallatory nature of the programme had worked on me and I was well charged up for some four-legs-good, man-on-animal action. I thought of nipping out into the night of the animal kingdom, on the prowl for some good equine butt. Then I realised Hornsey isn’t usually a mare’s stomping ground and that all the dogs would be locked up with their lucky owners. I don’t fancy birds or insects, so I stopped my search and flicked back.
Collings tried to raise the debate by talking about the transgressive, occultist, outcast nature of the acts, but the discussion was flimsy and the testimony from the hicks unsupportive. Conclusions other than that the participants were desperately inadequate humans using clear abuse of natural law as escapism from life could not be drawn.
The only success of the film was in getting these real-life accounts. C4 has been very keen recently to replace interesting (read: a bit more expensive) programmes with Victorian style freak-shows. This freak-show for the bored and listless filled that remit.
And it also made me think of a hilarious
Cull letter of old, advising a homophobe how to prevent “the evil fudge of gay”. Perhaps we can proffer similar methods: sew the animals’ anuses shut and develop cranial sewage outlets. It’s the only way we can stop the rising tide of zoophilia.
Mogador* blog
Cull hack looks away from the meaning=intent debate on the website to file reflections on his week off in Morocco...
Essaouira is the Brighton of the Maghreb – a cool, laidback but still bustling southern coastal resort. Yet where the Sussex city expands inland and along the coast, Essa is still mostly contained within its 18th-century walled medina and adjacent port. Cat Stevens’ experiences here were influential in his becoming Yusuf Islam and Hendrix stayed too. With conversation in Arabic or Berber unlikely, it was back to basic French and the esperanto of universal sign language.
And like that easy initial comparison, some things are still the same. Manchester United, Real Madrid and Arsenal are the most popular teams it would appear, Brazil the most popular country side. I went out in an old Barça top one afternoon and the walk took a lot longer for all the comments: no-one stands on ceremony. You learn to interact immediately and the conversation is more engaging than post-spreadsheet rush-hour chat with commuters.
The people here sit down outside all the time. To the untrained eye this may look like feckless timewasting by ne’er-do-wells in silly get-up. But why not, it’s fucking hot; watch the world go by – chill while you can and engage when you have to.
That Morocco is a poor place is not in doubt. If the constitutional monarchy-run economy had its shackles loosened and looked for areas of development there would be no need for scores of traders selling exactly the same thing to varying degrees of quality but similar diminishing returns. Or for the illegal cart traders doing the same thing. After the five-prayer-a-day mosque routine and mint tea (whisky marocain they ironically call it), the souk rules social life – thousands of traders operating from small blue-doored units with no hoardings all offering a ‘nice price’. Sometimes it overwhelms, but then three days in we went to the markets north of Marrakech’s Djemma al-Fnaa and saw that Essa is small fry.
While the market is everywhere, marketing isn’t. This is sweet relief from brand-sick Britain. Where slick and clever ad campaigns would reside instead hang images of Hassan II or Mohammed VI appear (those Arabs, they can’t resist a strongarm dictator, etc, etc, etc, shut up).
Except for Coca-Cola of course. Santa’s favourite drink (when it had coke in it) bears its legend over many a shop or vehicle. Islamic rivals Qibla or Mecca have made no impact – ‘spose those European projects aren’t targeting regional countries with low per capita earnings. And Ciel water is Coke-manufactured: I don’t read Arabic but I trust they were able not to confuse, as Dasani did, every day with the adjectival everyday. The homegrown Sidi Ali is the more successful.
Four days in and the inevitable hashish hustle. I don’t even recall saying anything about cif but soon we were in some pokey back street carpenter’s den negotiating over amount and price. Luckily, Abdel’s assurances of quality were justified and a couple of nice afternoons ensued. Five days in and the invariable harira (pasta soup)-tagine-couscous menu does the inevitable with my oversensitive arse.
Overall, with sufficient exotica such as the varied muezzins’ calls to prayer, a labyrinthe medina that took us days to get our head round (the old Jewish Mellah still in ruins after the 1940s/50s exodus) and other ephemera such as the mint tea culture and midnight floodlit beach football, there are more than enough diversions for this curious white European to avoid a desperate search for booze and the tourist activity such as camel-ridings, quad-biking or wind-surfing.
*Early European traders with the area called the town Mogador and the names lives on in the Ile de Mogador – effectively a falcon sanctuary – off the coast.
How to rid the UK of Islamic fundamentalism
This is a recent e-circular from the UK’s non-thinkers in offices up and down the country. It’s as bad as those American “Saddam game over” or “Bin Laden you’re next” t-shirts, and shows a deep empathy with the Daily Mail, not to mention UK seaside postcard smut. …
“We all know that it is a sin for a Taliban or an Al-Qaeda male to see any woman naked other than his wife, and that he must commit suicide if he does.
So, this Saturday at 4:00 pm all women living in England are asked to walk out of their houses, completely naked, to help weed out any neighbourhood terrorists. Circling your block for one hour is recommended for this anti-terrorist effort.
All men are to position themselves in garden chairs in front of their houses to prove they are not Taliban or Al-Qaeda, and to demonstrate that they think it's okay to see nude women other than their wives and to show support for all English women.
Since the Taliban and Al-Qaeda also do not approve of alcohol, a cold six-pack of Fosters or any similar beer at your side would be further proof of your anti-Taliban and Al-Qaeda sentiment.
The British Government appreciates your efforts to root out terrorists and applauds your participation in this anti-terrorist activity.
God Defend England
IT IS YOUR PATRIOTIC DUTY TO PASS THIS ON”
Remember kids, Britain – or England, it’s difficult to tell – is white, fun-loving, alcoholic and Islamophobic (a report said as much on the latter a few days ago). With more moronic St George masturbation like this it will no doubt stay that way….
