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Published August 04, 2008 More Info »
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Published August 04, 2008

...I had a beer with this bloke I met recently. He's a good lad: funny, down to earth. I trust him, y'know? So last night, I took our friendship to the next level. Porn Amnesty.

Every bloke needs a porn amnesty. A pact with someone you can rely on, in case anything were to happen to you. A mutual promise to get in and take care of the more 'frayed edges' of your life, like those back issues of Slippity Nurses  and An Illustrated Guide To Feltching poking out from under your matress. Someone to get in and delete your browsing history, safe before your family turns up in mourning to clear out the more respectable of your worldly possessions. Oh, and it goes without saying that the honour comes with first refusals.

Now that people, is commitment.

I'm thinking about turning it into a franchise actually. Like those adverts you see on T.V. with some bimbling old dear, swooning over pictures of her past and saying things like, "Ooooh, it's amazing what you take for granted."

Yeah, bladder control, obviously.

Then she goes on to tell you that by signing up to something-or-other, you get the peace of mind that, if you happen to 'go for your tea' suddenly, or prematurely, your family won't be stuck with hole-digging duties.

You know what? The more I think this through, the more I think it would work. I mean, picture the scene:

A fifty-something-year-old bloke strolls into shot in front of a blue-screen (which ironically is a pretty good pun) showing some hairy, sixties vixen getting three different colours smashed out of her: red, brown, and some kind of reddy-brown. Our guy is watching the screen, he turns and lets out a small chuckle to the camera,

"Oh, hello. We're all into something a bit mucky and could all do with the sense of security that, if the worst should happen, our graves won't be personally defecated on by the Pope. For a small monthly fee, you can now be safe in the knowledge that we at AnotherBlokeCalledPaul Ltd, guarentee to have your secret closet squeakier than a choirboy's farts."

Actually, I'm off to Dragon's Den with that.

So, moving on, or back actually, to the Flight of the Conchords. lecrivain17 is absolutely right. The female stalker is played so unnervingly well, it feels wrong to laugh. Like when someone falls out of a wheelchair. I'm in awe of that ability to take a script and stretch it into that third-dimension. It's her smile, her change of tone, and that slight drag in her voice. Genius.

Then again, some things come along that just don't need words, or that third dimension. Now this tore my arse to shribbons.

Hey, want a bit of an eye-roller? When times get tough, start on the disabled gags, right? Am I right? Yeah, I laughed, and I feel pretty bad about it.

Anyway, I've got a lot of respect for people who get on here and do it for themselves, even if it is sometimes woefully disturbing, but today, we'll stick with the original theme. Just to make it look like I've thought this through in some way.

A couple of porn-based clips for you:

Stick with this one 'til the end, it's worth it.

Although, I can't quite make my mind about this one, the idea's definately there though.

And last but in no way least, this one never had me doubled-up, but it's a start-to-finish smiler.

What do you think of the clips? Good? Bad? Funny? Die? Seen something better? Let me know.

Take it easy,

Another Bloke Called Paul.

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