'Mr Sex' treats you, the patient Todger Talk Reader, to his holiday slides

After the end of a trying year for the staff of Todger Talk, and the seemingly endless trudge through another horrific winter (I'm looking out the window now; everywhere is caked with horribly dirty snow. It's like a giant bird has shat upon the whole country), it's only natural that thoughts turn to the last holiday one had.

So, as a special treat, I'm going to show you a selection of pictures from my last sojourn, en familie, to a caravan park in Chapel St Leonards. And I can already hear you saying; "But what shagging-related palaver is to be had there, 'Mr Sex'?". Well, that's the reason I went, to be honest - I was expecting to take a much-needed break from the maelstrom of humpery and pumpery.

I was wrong.

My holiday - as per usual - was absolutely rammeth with sex. For one, it was a spiritual journey to the very caravan site upon which I was conceived. For two, Chapel St Leonards is next to Skegness, which - as you will discover - should actually be called Sexness, laden as it is with the musky tang of eroticism. Come, dear reader - let us plump up the pillows, and have a goz at the following...

This was the first thing I, my nephew and his mate encountered outside the caravan site - he thought it was selling bubble gum, bless. But who could disagree with the sales pitch, and its claim that new climactic plateaux could be attained by wrapping a quid's worth of material around your paramour's flange? Remember, though - styles may vary.

(Child's face has been obscured not because he's a young offender, but because he's my nephew and I don't want him kicking the living shit out of me in 2017)


Here, our young models are in the camp shop, demonstrating the style of garment more suitable for the average holidaymaker at Chapel (seriously, I'm not lying - I was by far the most attractive single man in the area. Unfortunately, I was also the most attractive single woman, as well). More alarmingly - and I kick myself for not getting a photo of this - the shop had a row of massive black dildos right behind the counter. I didn't know where to put me face when I went in there with me Mam for some suntan lotion.

(Incidentally, I overheard the following conversation between my youthful charges one night, on the way to the chip shop;

"I know what happens at Hooters"

"What?"

"The women come out with boxer shorts on their heads, and do cartwheels to clown music. And they rub mud into their lips, because they're too trampy to afford proper make-up")


Obviously, when you're at a British seaside resort, you can't go five minutes without cramming as many chips into your maw as possible - and even here, the ugly head of Sex rears up and screams at you. Unless I get proof to the contrary, this chippy is offering poultry-based lingerie, probably with a scoop of chips nestling in the gusset.

Because the alternative explanation - that the shop is using minced-up bits of one animal to make another one entirely - does not bear thinking about.


Another facet of the Skegness holiday is spending precious hours being dragged around arcades by youths, and I must say the standard has declined considerably, with an endless cascade of tuppenny waterfalls, knackered-up NBA Jam cabinets, tubby young girls sulkily 'performing' upon the Dance Dance Revolution machines in the manner of arthritic old men stubbing out fags with their feet and only two - that's right, two - pinball tables in the entire area.

Bizarrely, my nephew and his friend were insanely addicted to the love tester machines, meaning that Uncle Sex had to stand over two eight year-olds who were finding out how erotically charged they were by the highly technical method of slapping their filthy hands on the cabinet, leaving me to explain to said girls that no, I wasn't trying to groom them, while my darling nephew shouted; "HAAAH! I'm STERILE and you're not!"

(pause)

"What does sterile mean?"


Non-sexual item alert: These cost £65. The pair. Next time I have to go to a wedding between two people I'm not bothered about seeing again, they're getting these.


This cruel and debilitating affliction is going to be the Todger Talk designated charity for 2010.


Right, it's now the middle of the week, so time to start wondering about how I'm going to shag up the teeth of my nearest and dearest, through the medium of rock. The above is a charming example of the genre...


While this is...er....oh my.


In fact, it's fair to say that I would have seen less cock if I had stopped at home and watched the collected works of Ron Jeremy, whilst posing naked in a room consisting of full-length wall-to-wall mirrors.

Oh, and please note the 'Titties Kebab'; they're the cocks, but with the bell-ends snipped off.


Non-sexual item alert: Oh dear. If only the people who actually bought a mug with the logo of a bunch of racist mouth-breathers would follow the example set by the donkeys at bottom right. All together now;

Blackie
And Snowy
Live together in perfect harmony
Side by side on the eastern seaboard
Oh. Lord
Why can't we?


Horrifyingly reminiscent of the first post I ever made for this blog.

These are the dancing girls at Club Tropicana, the local cabaret that I practically used to live in as a kid, when it was the Maid Marian Club. Back then, the dancers were called the Champagne Kittens, and were classy as fuck. When I was 12 and starting to become even more sexually aware when I was at the age of, say 8, I was sitting on the very front table up against the stage, and they came out in stockings and basques and put on a scintillating performance to Bad Boys by Wham!, resulting in me sending a basket of scampi and chips flying across the table when one of them recited the spoken word bit in my ear.

Sadly, it has to be said that the standard has dropped since then; the current artistes - The Boy Toy Dancers - carried on like 14 year-olds putting on a lesbian show at a bus stop after one litre of Lambrini too many.


And this is the horrifyingly ironic thing about Skegness - even when you take into account the phallic symbolism, cheap underwear (constructed from meat or otherwise), opportunities to test one's sexual prowess and, and everything, I'm willing to bet that nobody had sex in Skeggy and surrounding area all week. I know I certainly didn't - the above image was taken when I went out on the pull on the Friday night (and if I had been there one more night, I could have witnessed a performance by the lead singer of the band who produced this early-70s erotic classic).

Happy New Year, everyone. Let us all move on.

(Main image provided by the ludicrously gifted Rikki Marr, who is Dead Good and Skill)