Filth

You've laid in a skipful of man-sized tissues, a 40-gallon drum of hand cream, primed your favourite search-engine to look for filth and here you are. Hard cheese. Nothing dangly, wobbly or squelchy in sight. In Britain it costs an arm, a leg and several significant organs to get connected. We are charged by the second. It would be cheaper and quicker for me to splash out (Sorry, Monica) on a 500-mile round trip to buy the latest offering from Knee-Tremblers'R'Us than it would to download it. And, assuming I were to go to that much effort for a glimpse of gusset, do you really imagine I'm going to have the energy or inclination to mortgage the gerbil to some bloated Telecom so that any spotty-arsed, sticky-fingered wrist-twister can walk the pork? Get knotted!

I've no profound moral stance on Porn. Most of what I've seen has been pretty distasteful and devoid of any aesthetic quality, but that's not what the business is about anyway. If the parties involved can be judged legally capable of consent, and have been given that option, then that's fine by me. So, no kids or animals. Vegetables are OK as long as they don't end up in my ratatouille, and anything non-organic gets a free pass. Any bigots who've read this far looking for a crumb of comfort from me can just bugger off now.

To anyone else who may have tripped over a link to this page, I'm sorry. For the time being, I can't think of anything to do with all this space. I'll be back when I can arrange a talent transplant.