As we were all secretly hoping for, and even though the month of February slipped by without any, let’s fill up the last of March with a swift dose of filthy bad boys:
Look at all of that.
I expect there will be droves of perverts desperate for nouveau erotica swarming into our coveted halls.
They’ll take one peek at the troughs on show here and they’ll not be able to contain themselves.
It’s a burden that we have to bear, seeking the numbers and lowering ourselves to unwanted depths of depravity, yet sometimes this is what you have to do to be a success. In order to reach the top of the mountain you have to trudge through the bleak, dirty depths first.
And, deep down, you know you love it.
22 comments on “A Menagerie of Filth”
Oh god. The Dirty End. Yeah. That’s the good stuff.
I didn’t fully believe it when you said you’d fill the Beans with filth in 2019. But you are going filthier than I ever thought possible. This is disgusting. Well done.
It is very exhausting trying to keep up with all of this fetid stench mess but I am just about managing. The world is a particularly disgusting place right now. All of this was in the surrounding area of where I work! Within walking distance!
How do you get any work done? You must be exhausted from all the sordid filthy sexiness you’re surrounded by on a daily basis.
I just do not know, Chris, how I can hold down this job with all the sexy filth going on in the background.
It’s hovering out my window right now. I want to EAT MY SANDWICH IN PEACE!
There can be no sandwiches for the man preoccupied with dirty bareback pipe surgery.
It’s always bang this and pipe that, glue that and shove that there, up that righty ho and suffering succotash that.
Deeply erotic chaos?
Deeply erotic chaos (what?)
I only hope that my fragile, innocent little mind can still prevail.
“Deeply Erotic Chaos” is a good name for a club night. Sounds hugely marketable (*finger window*). Do you want to do a spot as guest DJ?
Yes please. I can whip out all me old twelve inches (waaaaaay!) and delight the ladies.
Do I have to do it as Smidge Manly? I know I would have to pay Kev royalties.
I didn’t say anything that implied you had to do it as Smidge Manly. I’m not even sure if you should do it as Smidge Manly. I feel like he’d disapprove of all the filth. Better to do it as yourself, in your badly-stained “I LOVE FILTH” t-shirt, slamming and banging your well-worn twelve inches all over the decks.
That is so me. I do love the filth.
Standing up in a badly-lit room, catering to a large group of people, for some reason my mind wandered to the Smidge man. I wonder what he is up to now…
I expect he’s on his way to look at some interesting diesel locomotives, having ingested the most improbably large full English breakfast with extra chips at his local greasy spoon cafe.
I presume that he’s stuck in Bank Holiday traffic somewhere and he’s busy shaking his fist at a young couple in a Vauxhall Corsa.
I expect he has driving gloves for when he’s in the car. And a Thermos flask of tea.
I assume that half of his car is dedicated to the making of and preservation of the warmth of tea. I accidentally pressed a button on the dashboard once and was covered in a flurry of rich tea biscuits!
You’ve been in Smidge’s car? That’s amazing. Did the passenger seat have those wooden beads all over it that old people’s car seats used to have?
It did yes. He also had a welcome mat where the passenger’s feet would rest in the foot well. Footwell? Wellfoot.
Yeah. Foo twell. Like “Des Kshrine”, the name we all agree that Kev’s second orb should have had.
Good Foot. Great Feet.
Wait, what were we talking about again? Is one of my feet called Des Kshrine?
If it is, I’d understand why Kev didn’t want that name for his second born.
My second orb? I haven’t had a first one yet.