My
name is Cardie Clambers...and I am an officer of the Lez-Bi-Gay society at York University.
Lez-Bi-Gay, say it fast and it sounds like let's be gay, doesn't it! And why shouldn't we be gay, if we please? I know I am. Gay as an anvil. But being gay alone in a cupboard, however much it smells of lavender, is simply not enough. As we cruise our way into the 21st century I think it is the duty of every capable, good-looking boy to be not only gay, but also lez and bi. How does this work, you ask! I'll be buggered if I know, and buggered if I don't. Ha ha! Buggered on one side, buggered on the other, SNAP! That's from Bod, if you didn't know. Us students love old cartoons from the past, but they are a little racist by today's standards, and contain only scarce inference to rectal congress.
So what are my duties as an officer of the Lez-Bi-Gays? Well being an Officer I have to look after my Privates, of course! They're Generally in good condition with nothing Majorly wrong with them. Ha ha! See what I did there? I made a few army type jokes, yet it's the navy that people think is full of bummers! Actually I do have a military heritage, because my father was a rear-gunner. Well that's what people in our street used to call him when they showed him respect by flicking the Victory Vees at him. But I've never seen any of his medals, but did once find his uniform when he left the big trunk in his room unlocked one day. And my my! have the wars films got it wrong! The uniform is actually made of a glossy black rubber to reduce air drag and has a zip over the mouth to stop you swallowing birds and balloons when you stick your head out the window when having a crafty fag or are shaking your fist at the Red Baron.
When you are initiated into the Lez-Bi-Gays it is not unlike joining the SAS. In fact we all have a similar tattoo to the SAS on our upper arm. It is a butcher's hook framing a picture of the butcher himself slaying a donkey. The Latin phrase Je Suis Une KnobbeJocké is below it, which roughly translates as I bend both ways, so I'm told. The curves of the hook and the motto indicates our flexible attitude to life, and the story of the butcher is a long one, but apparently after having his knives stolen by a lusty magpie he had to fashion a new blade from an old leg of lamb! The donkey clearly represents ignorance, ignorance that must be destroyed! When we encounter rude people who do not know our ways and mimic our camp voices and mincing gait, we think of the butcher and the donkey and brandish our tattoos shouting "I'm going to shove my mutton dagger in your ass!" Sometimes our capering causes the timid to flee screaming into the night, but at other times we become the quarry of ignorance itself and are all too roughly dealt with.
After a particularly harsh week of being brutalised by fools who know no more sexual liaison than the missionaries did, I sometimes ask myself if it is all worth it. But the job's rewards are more than spiritual and at the end of every month I am handed my wage of nine bob notes, and, If I'm feeling flush, sometimes splash out on my boyGirlfriend NicolaBob. SHe's the one at the bottom of the photo. She's wearing that hat because I splashed out on him lots and lots and lots that day. I had a massive splurge, I did, all on his hair. Also She's trying to conceal what appears to be a balding pate, for which I myself am responsible. I grip his mane for maximum purchase when indulging in our Arthurian role play. I myself am Arthur and NicolaBob is my trusty steed Septimus. I ride him to Castle Cumalot where I put the sword in the stone, which to some of you might imply forceful sodomy! And by golly it does! But do not fear, Excalibur is always sheathed in a strong rubber scabbard, good sir! A dose of the AIDS (Arse Injected Death Sentence), or Bum Flue as it is more commonly being called, is not to be taken lightly, and to have it cured you have to have an umbrella shoved up your winky backwards and then be thrown from atop of a lighthouse in a gale! If the umbrella fails to open then you are smashed upon the rocks below, but if it does you are at the mercy of the storm and may at one time be transported like Mary Poppins to an antiquated Victorian family, dining daily on crumpets and summer preserves, or at other times drift to an island populated only by busty Amazonians and their king, Charles Hawtry, and there be made to do Dicky-Nooky with these ladies three times a day! Sod that, I'll take my chances with the Newtonian cocktail of granite and gravity, thank you very much.
Anyway, that's enough about me for today. Call back soon and perhaps I'll tell you more about our crazy university lives, or the day I saw what I thought to be a jellyfish in the sea at Scarborough. Perhaps I'll even tell you which one in the photo is me, because you might have been pressing your glans against the wrong bit of the screen.
TTFN.