Man Gets Trapped Trying To Shag Mannequin

I tried to put myself in the poor unfortunate's shoes at the point he realized that he required professional assistance to extricate himself. :-)


A 31 year old man from Doncaster received more than he bargained for, as he got a part of himself stuck inside a female display bust he had ordered online from Displaysense and mistaking it for an adult version. The one stop shop for retail display products and mannequins recently received a complaint about one of their new bust displays after it was used in an unusual fashion that has stunned and embarrassed the entire sales team.

A 31 year old man from Doncaster who can not be named for legal reasons has complained to Displaysense, the UK’s leading supplier of mannequins and display busts, after getting a part of himself trapped in a 24mm hole which is designed for a bust stand.The man in question had purchased the display bust by accident after mistaking it for an adult toy. Due to the durability of the display bust, he became concerned that the fire brigade would need to be called to liberate him. But thankfully, a pair of heavy duty scissors were able to cut apart the female bust to release him and relieve his delicate area. After freeing himself, he made a call to Displaysense to complain about the user friendliness of the female bust and that this was not what he had ordered.

Steve Whittle the marketing manager was stunned by this incident and said, “These busts are for display purposes only and no-where on the website or in the products packaging does it state that they should be used for adult means”. During the phone call the gentleman in question demanded a refund on the now dismantled female bust at which point the refund request was politely refused.This is not the first time an incident like this has occurred, in 2005, Michael Plentyhorse an 18 year old from the US was caught after performing an indecent act with an arts centre mannequin. Steve Whittle also commented by saying, “We’ve just added these busts to our range and we normally expect some initial teething problems but not in our 30 years of business have we experienced such an incident.

I just hope we don’t have to go to the extent of placing a warning sticker onto the bust to deter people from considering such inappropriate acts in the future”.A warning sticker on each bust just might not be enough to prevent such ludicrous situations from happening again but the company are considering possibly placing a warning on the new display bust section of their website.

Eleven Months

It's been long time, eleven months in fact since I last posted my blog. I guess I crammed so much into my first posting that it took me a while to collate anything worthwhile to follow that first installment. The year has flown by and a lot has happened since...

Yes, there have been more Capers, I'm glad to say though the Capers have occurred with less frequency. Basically this has a direct link to less alcohol intake, I was and have been if I'm honest on the road to oblivion with the alcohol. Anyone who identifies with this kind of thing I'm sure will concur. You know, it all starts when we're a lot younger, the pub thing. Me and my mates trying to get in the pub...the humiliation of being told I didn't look old enough, the smirks on my mates faces coupled with the satisfaction that their bum fluff meant that they passed the eighteen years old test where as mine, well, I was hard pushed to find any. As was the then landlady of the Fox Inn. (see angelic looking mugshot one Onepotscreamer flickr site)

I remember one night a few of us went into Wigston Boys Club, this must have been an establishment where alcohol was served because I remember one of my very early and painful alcohol experiences. It involved a pint race with one of the Sneath clan, in fact I think we were all involved taking it one turn at a time to race against Mick. Well, I started brightly enough, we were probably racing with ordinary cooking lager, you know, Carling or Fosters. Very gassy and not unlike piss water. I held my own for two thirds of a pint then hit a noticable wall, I continued gulping..whereas my mates could belch to order, I couldn't. Never have been able to master this knack and it never occurred to me that this trick could save me from serious pain and discomfort. That pint sat in my gullet for an excrutiating ten to fifteeen minutes with nowhere to go. That gas ridden cooking lager seemed to bloat my stomack almost to bursting point, if that's anything like almost the point of giving birth then girls, I admire you.

When finally I did let out a trombone of a bone shaking belch my face expressed all the signs of a lad spared the gallows.

I'm In The Ale House

"I'M IN THE ALE HOUSE"

The Alexander, Wimbledon, London. SW19

This is an eye level view of the sports bar of my favourite local, The Alexandra, Wimbledon. The angle of view is from the "round table" just to the left, out of shot is a big screen and then there are two Samsung flat screens one of which you can see just above centre. The Alexander is a Youngs pub, which until very recently brewed it's beer in Wandsworth Town, a couple of miles from here.

The Alex, as it is affectionately known has three distinctly different bars, the third being a wine bar in it's own right, it's known as "Smart Alex", there are no sports screens in Smart Alex and as such is less frequented by the Onepotscreamer than the other two. Sandwiched in between Smart Alex and the Sports Bar is what I shall refer to as "The Old Boy's Bit", this is the only carpeted part of the pub, it's the watering hole of the more mature regular. It too has a small screen and is the more sedate of the three bars. Although all three areas are very different, we all share a common perception, that we are truly home from home.

For anyone chancing upon this blog it's been a couple of weeks or so since my last entry, incidentally a good few years ago there would have been a chorus of f 'nar, f 'nar for that one, but no, not anymore. We've all matured, we've all got responsibilities now, mortgages, wives, partners, kids, slippers. Our ideal day out now is to stroll through country lanes admiring the birds and contemplating an extension to the kitchen whilst debating with our loved ones what we are going to have for lunch, maybe pasta or some grilled fish, washed down with a glass of carbonated water. If we're lucky we may get Ryvita with a sliver of fine cheese, but go easy on the butter.

C'mon everybody, pull yourselves together, show us your mettle.

I thought I'd welcome you to my world... A few days in the life of "The Onepotscreamer", I'll start with something my good friend Mr Ridgewell has initiated, "The Beer Log".

BEER LOG: Thwaites Lancaster Bomber (4.4% ABV)

"The Northern Beauty".

A very easy drinking beer with an inviting malty aroma, this rich amber beer is brewed using pale ale and crystal malt to achieve a full-bodied flavour. A finely balanced hop character is enriched by the late addition of Styrian Goldings as a dry hop to give a prominent floral hop aroma and warming aftertaste. You will notice in the pic below that nestled between the two Lancaster Bombers is a bottle of Thwaites Liberation. It's lip smacking good. Liberation was brewed to mark the 90th anniversary of the start of the first world war, and the 60th anniversary of the D Day Landings.

Alas this is my first and possibly, my only Beer Log, you see, I was so enthusiastic about compiling my first beer log that, (and this will come as a surprise to my less familiar readers) I made the mistake of over indulging in the Thwaites product range. The following sorry tale describes the the ill effects I encountered as a result. It's worth noting that anyone who is considering starting and maintaining a beer log, should take heed, this is after all, a serious business.

Firstly it is advisable to find an outlet that has a wide variety of beer for sale. I chanced upon my local off licence whilst strolling along the Merton High Street, a stones throw from our home. Apart from the wife demonstrating a fine and authentic Latin American temperament, you will discover a quality purveyor of all kinds of enchanting brews.

There are in fact over 650 beers sold from this wonderful establishment. And, as is usually the case with such outlets, it is run by people of integrity and a real passion for there wares, ensuring that the process of buying and selling is one to positively look forward to. I had in fact taken so readily to the task in hand that I was soon setting off on my fourth excursion too Nelsons Wines that fateful evening in order to carry out further research.

Upon my fourth visit I was greeted in the same calm and helpful manner however as I was making my exit my I somehow tripped over a thoughtlessly placed crate of Tanglefoot, full bodied with a medium bitterness and a rounded, smooth, hoppy flavour, hints of melon and pear with a clean crisp finish and a hoppy linger. Alc cont 5%. I skinned my knees on the pavement outside and sent bottles of Thwaites meandering along Merton High Street. Nobody seemed to bat an eye lid as I hurredly rounded up my flock and disappeared into the night like I a fox with a chicken.

Some time later...

Here's the wife asking the proprietor of my local offie which brew had affected her normally mild mannered and loving husband. She is explaining that he's turned into a "fookin' basta" and that she'd left me singing and gurgling in a bath full of the stuff. And, that on no account was he allowed to sell anymore "Northern Beauty" to her husband.

Bless her, for she too succumbed to the sweet talk and gentle Irish charm of our friend, the proprietor. For the purposes of this blog I shall refer to him as Pat, although as yet I am unsure of his real name. Mayte left the store clutching a variety of bottles which will have to be logged at a later date.

Meanwhile, I'd come round, showered and refreshed myself and decided to take myself off down the Merton High Street for a haircut as me and the boys had an appointment with Arsene Wenger's kids at Cardiff the next day.

Now, I usually opt for a number one all round the lower half, tapered to a nice finish with a number two over the top, in short, a good old fashioned short back and sides. I've got my usual barber up the road toward Wimbledon, but I thought I'll try somewhere on the Merton high Street.

I skillfully avoided this place as the signs weren't so good...

Half an hour later, I emerged feeling like a new man, clean, Shaven and ready for anything. Thoughts turned toward Sunday, this was a big day in my footballing calendar, The Carling Cup Final. The match was to played out in Cardiff, I'd already planned well ahead, the pre - arrangment was to meet the boys at North Acton station at 8.30am Sunday. Big Dave had hired a people carrier to take us to Newport, from there we would take the train to Cardiff in time for an ale or two and in we go.

Perfect Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance - The 6 P's

A little ditty I borrowed from my ex military brother, in this case take out the words perfect, planning, prevents and oh, performance. You're left with piss poor...the blame for this I lay squarely at the door of my friend Steve Ridgewell who cajoled me into joining the beer log in the first place. Anyway, I digress, I was rudely awoken on Sunday morning by the mobile bleating urgently, it was Boicey, Eamonn (Boicey) Price "Hello, Draper!, where the fuck are you then?"...10 seconds elapsed before the penny dropped, and then, my friends, there was hell to pay.

The Mrs forced me out of the sack, my brain felt as though it was stuck to the pillow, it caught up with me in the lounge where it found me beating my fists onto the carpet. And then the pain, the brain docking pain of morning after reality, hit hard, very hard. From somewhere close I heard the theme tune to "Tales Of The Unexpected"... It was Boicey on the phone, "get a cab!, get a cab you *£%*!, meet us at the M4 slip road off Kew Bridge"...my wife by this time was being as helpful as she could, finding my socks, boxer's and pointing out where all and sundry was that I needed to take with me. Including of course my wallet, bless her, I'd only promised her the night before that I would see her right for a few quid and "The Fookin' Basta" was going to see to it that he kept to his word. So off we went to the cash point whereupon we parted, I left the wife with a smile on her face, vital.

The relevance of this card will become clear very soon. Although quite how, after I had intercepted the chaps at the M4 slip road just off Kew Bridge, I wasn't to know until later that day. I'd paid my cabbie the princely some of £25.00 nicker to get me to Kew, I was in no fit state to debate the fare and judging by my driver I would have been foolish to even try. He was dressed in a Crombie and driving a Chrysler that looked not unlike a Bentley, Dave was a man of few words and seemed far more interested in my back round than me in his. If there is a Morden Mafia then Dave is it's Tony Soprano. I was greeted with a volley of abuse from the chaps but this was to be expected. It was after I took my place in the back of the people carrier that I discovered this playing card in my back pocket.

All kinds of thoughts crossed my mind as we hurtled down the M4. Big Dave the driver was trying to make up for lost time whilst I was trying make up for my lost mind, with the possibility that there was a contract out on me from last night's capers. Did I venture anywhere else?, I asked myself, has the the wife's tether finally snapped?, could it have been Dave of the Morden Mafia?...all kinds of thoughts were crossing my mind as we passed vehicle after vehicle decked out in each clubs respective colours. The plan was to park at Newport, close to the railway station and take a train to Cardiff. This, apparently was a fifteen to twenty minute journey...however, as is usual whenever there is a well known and publicised event happening, giving transport operators plenty of time to ensure that the necessary infrastructure is in place, it was almost a non event. The last train to Cardiff was still at Newport with some 2'000 fans marooned at the station, signal problems were being blamed. We decided to cab it instead, even so we missed the kick off although we would have missed the whole of the first half had we relied on the train.

Now I've been told I bare more than a striking resemblance to other people in my time. I wonder, has this happened to any of my readers?, and if so, who have you been compared to?...the reason I bring this up is that during the half time interval, as I made my way to the bar for some light refreshment I was hit with the

"Hey, it's Wayne Hemmingway" line, I did retort that this had been noted once before, to which the response from my humorous new friend was "Yes, and it's been said twice now" followed by guffaws of barrel belly laughs and requests for fashion tips from his mates, come to think of it, this guy didn't look un - like Les Dennis. I've also in my time been compared with Herbert Lom and Harry Hill. Hardly Paul Newman but one cannot have everything.

Celery, celery...yes, for you Chelsea folk it's the celery song. Along with leeks, celery was the most popular vegetable in Cardiff last Sunday. The highlight was seeing Cesc Fabrigas virtually buried under a pile of celery when he went to take a corner at the Chelsea end. We were all gleefully smattered with celery throughout the duration of the match, it was also trodden underfoot on the streets and pavements around the Millennium Stadium before and after the game. A sure sign that there had been hoardes of Chelsea fans in the vicinity. The picture below right is of Dorothy's Fish and Chip shop, apparently the finest chippie in Cardiff.

Professionalism is the their middle name (s), well done boys. Honest fayre, honestly priced. (quite frankly a rarity these days)...

Now, I've got to say, the welsh know how to have a good time, I kid you not. Before we left our watering hole for the journey back to London I went to relieve my bladder which meant going downstairs, where I chanced upon the basement bar of this fine establishment.

I was greeted by a scene that wouldn't have looked out of place in a Tarrantino film. In the midst of the dim light and sweat was a rather portly bare chested chap, gyrating confidently to the strains of...

(Tom, you're a one off....thank you from everyone)

I saw the light on the night that I passed by her window

I saw the flickering shadows of love on her blind

She was my woman

As she deceived me I watched and went out of my mind

My, my, my, delilah Why, why, why, delilah

I could see that girl was no good for me

But I was lost like a slave that no man could free

At break of day when that man drove away, I was waiting

I crossed the street to her house and she opened the door

She stood there laughing, I felt the knife in my hand and she laughed no more

My, my, my delilah

Why, why, why delilah

So before they come to break down the door

Forgive me delilah I just couldnt take any more

She stood there laughing

I felt the knife in my hand and she laughed no more

My, my, my, delilah

Why, why, why, delilah

So before they come to break down the door

Forgive me delilah I just couldnt take any more

Forgive me delilah I just couldnt take any more

The End

PS: The card proved to be an omen...

the blues won 2-1

Blogging - What A Palaver

Ah, here I am again, yes, I'm new to all this...you see yesterday I drafted my first half blog. The bones of which were that I'd discovered a rear lower tooth that had indeed worked loose from frustrated gnashing of my teeth in the night. A bit like one of the old nights out, the difference being that I still had money in my wallet when I awoke.

Like anything, it's a long painful learning process, my drafted half blog has been lost in the ethersphere, I suspect for good. I can detect you all tutting right now, I'm a bit of a ludite really but hey, I'm having a go. The reason for my blogs are mainly to get things of my chest and to reveal a little of my world to those who may be interested. If you're not, then why are you reading?

So, I'll cut to todays chase....Banks, no, not Banksy the artist, not Gordon Banks the ex Leicester and England Goalkeeper. Our high street banks, yes, the robbin' ba$tard$, those banks that have been ripping us off quite cheerfully for year upon down trodden year. Making out that they're doing us a favour, taking 'ere, snaffling there, subtracting here, interest there. Now, if anyone out there still believes all of the bullshit that says these guys are out for our interest (s), that they are "at our service", that they "like to say yes", that they're "the local bank", that "I'm with the Woolwich", 'n all that. Well, it's time to take heed.

Enough is enough, apparently we can now go to war on these high street criminals dressed up as friends. Visit moneysavingexpert.com, (and before you start thinking, hey up, he's trying to make a buck), this is something I saw on page 2 of today's Independent, for all of you real ludites just google that name and you will find the link. Then, simply study your bank statement and if you've been charged for items which, really you think are not your fault and you've defaulted due to the inflexibility of their system then you can go in there fully armed. (not literally, please)

Yes, be assertive but don't be aggressive...it's not Sharon, the tellers fault but the management and they're the ones who you need to be 'avin' it out with.

Time for a cuppa?, make mine a large one...

Over and out...