A HORSE WITH NO NAME

A while back, when the same-sex marriage nonsense was coming  to a head, I wrote something along the lines of Man Demands Right To Marry Dog, or something; you know, Rover and I love each other deeply, why should we not be allowed to confirm and declare  our love in a marriage ceremony, just like other couples do?  

It was the usual Ishmaelian reducto ad absurdum schtick, Private Eye meets William Burroughs meets Viz Magazine meets Lenny Bruce meets Bill Hicks collides with  Hamlet and winds up tangled up arse backwards in the King James Bible.  Seemed to me that  this was the internal logic of the Marriage 4 All brigade; as well as it being a demand for the right of gays to be straight, this screechy  bollocks  seemed to be a moral floodgate hanging off its hinges; inter-species sex, yes, brothers and sisters and neithers, dogfuckers must take their rightful place in the  vengeful, fucked-up cavalcade of  trannies, black trannies, pre-op trannies, gays, lesbians and tattooed, nipple-pierced, shaven-headed, sado masochisitc exhibitionists and shit-eating LibDem MPs. Animal Love, it's the real thing.  Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder, even be  they donkey and hockey mistress. Amen. And A-animals.

And there the thought lay, until quite recently when I saw some scorchingly brilliant apocalypsier who had sneaked through the barbed wire at Comment Is Free, over at the Arsebridger  and he, too, was positing the inevitable  legalisation of bestiality.  Got me thinking.

Now, I know that this shit has been going on and going on.  Those great civilisations of which mr tdg  writes,  they were all for that kind of entertainment, the Romans, anyway.  Yes,  Citizen,  that bull, over there,  the one with the huge dick, yes, him, just take him over there to that woman, get hold of his salami stick and shove it up her arse;  he'll soon get the idea;  Oh, yeah, Citizen,  that's good, look at that blood spurting out of her arse, and listen to that scream,  you just can't fake that.  No, no, don't worry she's just a wog.  And the people need a diversion while we're busy inventing Democracy and Idealism and Central Heating. Yeah,  I think she's dead, now;  yeah, get him another one, get a couple of centurions to hold her upside down this time and see if you can force his cock down her throat;  the bitch'll love it .  Pure theatre, Citizen darling. Must be part of the subtext of the history of Western Philosphy, state-sponsored bestiality.  But I never did see any, myself.

I'll have a look, I thought, there might be something on Google.  You know how the information super buyway works; it's like a 360 degree Big Bang, just more and more and more and more and more stuff; from one search term - animal sex - within seconds,  there is an infinitely expanding kaleidoscope  of, well, horror, I suppose,  is the word; it's not nightmare horror like Belsen or Hiroshima, but it sure makes you want to puke.  And then, before you know it, you're into it, not into-it into it, just deploying  your natural  good taste and discernment - Horse Sex? Dog Sex? Gorilla Sex?  Snake Sex, whaddaboutthat?  Surely not.  No, yes,  there it is,  just like you'd expect it to be, if you'd ever thought about it.  Oh, look at this shit, Monkey Sex, a threesome. 

In my little paddle through these cyber tributaries I only saw women engaging in this stuff.  Goes to show, doesn't it, we've been right about the filthy sluts all along.  Oh,  there was one guy fucking a cow  but he looked gay to me.

Ms lillith said, a while back, a propos pornography, that there was a morbid, compelling fascination about it, something outside the sexuality, ersatz or genuine, of the opus.  Something like that, anyway.  And as I scrolled through this stuff I grew not less repelled but actually more fascinated   with the process.  For a start, the female participants were clad and cosmeticised in the usual lingerie and lipstick, as though the Rotweiller co-star was just an old-fashioned lover of stocking tops, just like the rest of us, really. And he, Rotty, for his part, the lover-gallant, was kitted up with what looked like huge, padded Marigold gloves on his forelegs, so's he wouldn't rip Mandy's tits to bits, in his passionate embrace, it didn't look, however, as though anything would ameliorate the abrading of Mandy's anus with Rotty's grotesque, pointy, boney, slimy.....thing. Mandy loved it though, groaning and moaning and yessing. Or that seemed to be the idea, anyway.

And I looked at this stuff and I thought, well, there's Mandy, there's the other girl she's snogging with while Rotty's buggering her,  there's a dog handler, there's at least one person filming and sounding, maybe a make-up person, a continuity person, to keep Mandy's seams straight  between shots and maybe there's a producer and/or director;  maybe half-a-dozen people, in this room, all playing their parts in this weirdness.  Here in this one little clip,  therefore, one  amongst millions, probably tens of millions, there's half-a-dozen certifiable  lunatics.   And a fucked-up Rottweiller 

And my mind exploded. I'm poorly at present so maybe that explains it.  But I thought about the sort of people who acquire Rottweillers and I thought, Is this why they have them, to fuck their girlfriends up the arse? With their horrid, boney, slimy, triangular cock-bones?  Am I walking around blind as a bat, and in very other council flat there's a dog-orgy going on?

And then there's the horses. I've never seen a horse's cock before but - with the porno horses, anyway - they are big, as big as you might expect  - if you thought about it at all -  and then double that.  They are feet long,  horse's cocks, feet.

And there's Mandy's sister or cousin,  thigh boots and halter top, trying to get Dobbin's dong, or part of it, into any of her bodily openings, moaning and yessing and BigBoying, trying to smile at the camera round a mouthful of horsecock.  Gwyneth Poultry gets an Oscar and five million dollars for crying and looking vulnerable.  Mandy's sister probably gets a hundred bucks and a free shower, afterwards, after the Moneyshot.

But the most repellingly, fascinatingly, hairstandingonendingly  grotesque and poignant animal porn I saw in that bizarre half-hour featured an American woman, wrong side of forty, maybe the wrong side of fifty, basque and fishnets and lipstick and hairspray and at first she appears just to be fellating her old man and then she snaps her fingers over her arse and Hey, presto, there's GoodBoy,  a Husky, I think and he's going at his mistress, like a piledriver, going up and down like a fiddler's elbow, she still fellating  hubby for all she's worth and when Goodboy slips out or loses interest she just does that fingersnap  thing again and he's back on the case. 

 As well as the video, there's flashlights going off in all directions, so there's an audience present, I guess;  afficianados,  the Devil's cognoscenti  And every minute or so hubby's saying You like that, bitch, sucking cock and getting fucked  by a dog at the same time? You like that?  A quick fingersnap pour encourager le garcon bon and she stopped sucking hubbys flaccid dick long enough to murmur,  obediently, from her decades of subjugation,  Mmmm, I love it baby.  I dunno, maybe she did love it.  But I didn't. Sweet, suffering Jesus, I think I howled at the bullying,  the exploitation, the helpless, incorrigible awfulness of it all. And I made my excuses and left.

As I said, I've been feverish, not sleeping, not eating, everything's an effort.  Normally I would've gone and ridden round the garden, on the mower, levels my head and eases my mind,  but I just slumped down and switched on the telly.

Just like horsey-sex, I had never seen footballer-turned-griddler, Gordon Ramsay, before that day. The teevee opened up with him, bug-eyed, his Botox face bulging, just yelling, over and over,  at the top of his voice, Fuck Off, Fuck Off, Fuck Off, just Fuck Off, go on, Fuck Off as a dozen or so New York chefs slunk away down the stairs of some jumped-up burger bar.  Oh man, they said to each other, we really fucked-up, we gotta wake up to the plate, step up and smell the coffee, get our shit together and on and on and on.  I think the crime involved was an overcooked lamb chop or something, some utterly meaningless shit, like the moron Ramsay, himself.

Just as an aside, when I was a kid, I worked in the kitchen of a five star hotel, a proper kitchen, not a tevee kitchen, proper chefs, not teevee chefs,  I've probably forgotten more about French cuisine than Ramsay ever knew;  there was a time when I had all but totally memorised Escoffier's La repertoire de la Cuisine, I worked under internationally famous  maitre chefs de cuisine, not gobby cunts like Ramsay.  Anyway, I know, even without having seen it, that his show is not about cooking, it's more akin to pornography, bullying and humiliating people; fuck 'em though,  they queue-up to be on this shitshow,  they queue-up to be tele-prompt insulted by that other botox hag, Winky Robinson,  it is a whole new branch of programming, Humiliation.  But the point of the aside is that in any proper kitchen, even  where all seek superstardom on the strength of their rubbishy, indigestible crap, Ramsay would have had his teeth knocked out decades ago or  whilst carrying something frighteningly hot, he'd have slipped on a squirt of judiciously positioned oil or, and this is a good one, one side of a dish or plate is swiftly and ferociously heated, so swiftly that before the heat radiates all over the vessel it can be held, bare-handed, on the cool side, proferred thusly to the victim, Ramsay, who, also bare-handed, grabs the roasting-hot edge and then runs in agony to the sink to cool his damaged fingers, his meals in progress burning away to fuck on the rangetop whilst he squeals.  In the real world no-one would  tolerate Ramsay for five minutes.

In the real world no-one would associate with a man - and it will be a man - who, by one coercive stratagem or another,  induces a woman to insert a snake in her vagina, to do it on camera for Eternity to view and to moan, betimes, as if in ecstasy.  Yet there is an audience, a paying market for this stuff,  there must be, mustn't there ?

I have known since I was young, too young, that we are part-colonised by the unnatural doers,  the nonces and that they proliferate like a dense, darkening forest, unpursued, unprosecuted;  the cops Hosannahing themselves recently over the jailing of one  elderly celebrity wretch;  we have it cracked, now, said Chief Inspector Gob, Yes, and we have, too, added CPS lawyer, Mustapha Writ. Yes, lads, country owes you a huge debt.

It's the same old story, it's the same old song, a full and far-reaching cover-up which will fully cover things up.  How many prosecutions at the PBC, over Sir James ?

But I genuinely never knew - I guess I just never thought about it - the extent to which women,and thus we all, are degraded, not by erotica but by improbably complex, inventive, orchestrated    and purposefully humiliating aberration.

I still cannot quite put my finger on it, on why same-sex marriage is not only a contradiction in terms but also a green light, perhaps unintendedly, for a dash to the bottom; it is just so, I know it to be wrong.  In the second Elizabethan age, which straddles my lifetime,  we have mistaken vile Ramsayism for education and entertainment;  we have considered sex with pigs to be a fundamental and vital artistic freedom  and  we have conflated whim-driven, individual satisfaction with the public good;  like poor, red-arsed Mandy, we have said Yes more times than enough; it's time we said No.