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Searching For Bigfoot [Dec. 24th, 2003|05:34 pm]
[Current Mood |happy for another lucky bastad]

Paul Beard (Homo-Semi-Erectus) stands less than six-feet tall when moving from room to room in his Yorkshire lakeside cottage, but the presence projected upon the visitor’s mind is of something far larger. Similarly, when Paul Beard (Homo-Often-Drunkus) sits down upon a piece of antique furniture the weight and mass distributed on the upholstery is that of an average man, but the visitor is persuaded to imagine that something far wider and heavier is attempting a docking procedure of disastrous proportions. The distance between fantasy and reality in relation to Mr Beard, in what we see and actually see, in what we believe and what is actually true, does the man much credit. He is a larger than life character, a myth made real, and someone that warms the cockles of our collective hearts.

There’s nowt on telly tonight, lad And Livejournal’s rather shite Eh up, there’s somebody at the door Spit Roast! Spit Roast!

It is sad then that after such a stirring homage the said legend has decided to fuck off and have a life away from Livejournal. And as to why there can only be one conclusion: he’s having regular sex.

Shocking to think that such things can happen in this day and age to one of our friends, but they do, and apparently when you least expect it. In the voyeur’s lounge that is our friends’ page, we read our favourite journals with varying amounts of interest, never suspecting that hidden within the comical sexual innuendos and coded references to monkey spanking there lies a man of action, a man of destiny, a man with an active thrusting pelvis. Like soap addicts we digest the little dramas, feeling sympathy and hope whenever the need arises, whatever the plot decrees, until the fateful day comes when the primetime slot is filled not by the object of our fascination but by the inexplicable arrival of others. Without warning our favourite character is plucked from the window of the Livejournal lounge and into the world of reality, into the world of relationships.

I have seen it happen to others, you know. Oh yes. I have seen it happen to those who proclaim themselves to be born-again virgins or life-long loners. They are convinced, just as we are, that they are to be forever single, forever alone, and then wham they disappear from view without so much as a fond farewell, and when they return, exhausted, flushed, sometimes with a yeast infection, you know they have wet their willy in the great genital pool of love.

The threat of unexpected sex lies like a Trojan Horse in back of every desperately single committed Livejournal user’s mind. Even mine. Especially mine. It is not discussed, it is not considered, but the threat is always there, like a half-opened rubber johnny on the bedside table; not to be used in any rational sense beyond its sell-by date, but as a reminder of the unexpected shape of things to come. And so the story leads expertly back to me, to Luffbucket (Homo-Sticky-Alonus) for I too am prone to the unexpected shape of things to come, and to the unexpected shape of things that go bump in the night. And though I tend to share my bed with the well-worn inflatable delights of Agatha the Sheep, I complain not, for we must all get our jollies where we can.
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