MTV Contraception.

Today’s average fifteen year old will have seen enough bare flesh to last a lifetime. Between MTV and ANTM etc they will have seen the finest specimens of the human body soft porn-ing themselves to within a millimetre of their pubic hair. That’s if it hasn’t already been permanently bonded to a wax strip and ripped off in a moment of erotic pain, thus converting their genitalia in one swift movement to that of a newborn baby. In my day a fifteen year old had much to look forward to. Even the glimpse of a well-formed cleavage was enough to get my pulse racing. But today’s fifteen year old has as much visual experience as a middle-aged gynaecologist. I wonder if this won’t put them off sex for life. But then, in the spirit of unforeseen consequences, this may militate towards much needed population control. We might even consider deluging third word countries with porn videos to counteract the influence of those salacious burkas. I mean a burka is as close as any religion can get to a fur coat and no knickers. One begins to realise why all the permanently naked saggy titted, cock dangling tribes are dieing out; I mean where’s the lust when it’s in your face 24/7? And probably in your dinner if you’re a bloke eating cross-legged on the floor. It’s a conundrum. Do we continue supplying images of erotic flesh at every opportunity and curb our rampant over population or all wear monk habits and become rampant habit lifters?

A Spaceship?

So it’s quarter to three in the morning and I need a pee. In an effort to make the trip worthwhile I decide on a bowl of Shreddies. As it’s a full moon I decide to use the light in the cooker hood for minimum illumination so I can eat them in our moonlit garden. Incidentally do you every use your cooker hood? Our three-position fan control switch has never passed electricity for years, even when grilled and blackened lamb chops set off the smoke alarm. I’m sure it’s a ‘must have’ purchase that has no use in reality. I digress. I take my cereal to the swing seat and gaze at the moon. Half way through a light appears; a bright white spot of light hovering about fifteen feet above the ground near our neighbour’s house. It swings around like the frantic gaze of some mystical one-eyed beast silently scanning for prey. A mini space ship? As it scans it settles on me, and takes a long hard look. It looks away and scans a bit more. I realise it is my neighbour checking for intruders from their bedroom window with one of those million candlepower torches they sell cheap because they suck a battery dry in minutes. In the silence I wonder, do I wave, smile, do I shout to this intense silent light that it’s only me eating Shreddies in the garden at three o’clock in the morning in nothing but a dressing gown? The light goes out and peace resumes. A wife is placated and two husbands go back to bed.

Josie wins Big Brother.

I find it strange that the biggest show on TV works because there is no TV in the BB house. And as each and every one of the five finalists said how much they’d gained and grown from their experience it’s also a great advert for not having TVs in your house. So there’s Josie as fresh as Somerset silage welcoming past winners into an eighteen day ‘winner of winners’ last gasp reprise, the majority entrance-ing as a caricature of their winning persona. There’s something uni-directional about TV. Millions of us know them but they don’t know us. We watch them and make judgements and they can’t watch or make judgements about us. In the house they interact and learn from their housemates and afterwards interact with a million ill formed opinions of them. Imagine every stranger you meet from now on knowing you and holding their version of who you are, expecting you to be funny or stupid, shallow or belligerent or use the catch phrases you were known for. It must be like being typecast as yourself, or some aging super group having to repeat their old tunes every night for the rest of their lives because that’s what the public want. Each stranger would expect you to still be 24 and aghast you’ve aged ten years in the ten years since they last saw you on TV. I find the prospect frightening. In the house your persona was challenged and grew where as afterwards it is reflected and reinforced by everyone you meet. It’s no wonder the old winners with their experience of ‘afterwards’ seem like caricatures. Right now Josie is truly beautiful, not because of her bleach blond hair but because she is fresh and real, joyful and giddy. I only hope she can go back to her mates, take the money and run. A hundred K is peanuts compared with the price she might otherwise pay. No, TV is a one-way street. It sucks the life out of its watchers and imposes the detritus of that liposuction on its participants. 

Ah Wisdom, with Guns.

Several years ago I saw a woman on television who explained she had been neurotic about her dogs, but thanks to numerous self help books she now understands them perfectly, knows how to pander to their every whim and how their relationship proves all her past odd behaviours and beliefs to be appropriate. In short she was even more neurotic but happier with the justifications she’d invented and that the books had helpfully confirmed. She had managed to construct out of the astute nuggets of wisdom within these books conclusions their authors would cringe at. As I see it there are only three reactions to learning some truth, laughter, tears or anger. The response of, “Mmm, ah now I understand” is a sure fire indication one has simply concluded something one wanted to believe in the first place. As with this woman this is not new found wisdom but more justification of one’s ongoing unawareness. Wisdom is often painful at first. It’s when you don’t want to hear what you need to know. Our conscious self will gladly apply the disciplines of wisdom to others whilst maintaining our own comfortable cosy den of justifications. ‘You have so much work on you need to buck your ideas up, whereas I have so much work I need to chill out.’ Isn’t it odd the same situation can lead to two very different conclusions? If you’re ever tempted to tread the labyrinthine paths of self-realisation it’s worth remembering that nine out of every ten signposts you encounter will lead you to that same comfy den of self-justification. It’s just the same old nonsense dressed up in new ideas like an Ikea kitchen. Only the tenth, the one overgrown with stinging nettles, dank, dim, threatening, absurd, haunted, that appears would take all your courage to survive, might get you somewhere. Recently I heard of a reputably wise teacher saying, “Enlightenment is just one big grin.” Now I know some pretty wise people but they would never ever say that. Why? Because the 100% of us who aren’t enlightened will respond by grinning. It maybe true but grinning sure as hell don’t make it so. It’s like a man who had a cart and bought a horse to get it places quicker. As it was the cart he wanted to get there quickest he put the cart in front of the horse. Nice idea but zero progress. But maybe I’m being hard on this teacher. If he’d just flattened his thumb with a hammer and said it with an ironic laugh through his wince of pain I would respect him. If he said it with a grin….. Wisdom is far subtler than those who think they’re wise. And I should know :))))))))))))

Fox P2.

Fox P2 is known as the ‘language gene.’ It’s the little structure in our genome that provides us with the ability to verbalise. I imagine we all know someone who we might point to and say in a low breathy voice, “The Fox P2 Force is strong in this one.” Whether there is a gene somewhere else that governs the quality of our utterances is yet to be discovered. Lets just say the relative dominance of these two genes is, from experience, unrelated. Recent study has shown Neanderthals had it but monkeys don’t. Interestingly this study also showed that all of us with the exception of Africans have at some stage ‘had relations’ with Neanderthals. It appears we humans all stemmed from Africa but went abroad on our Club Med 18-30 holidays, thought the locals looked sexy, and never returned. As hairy chest thumping muscular men are far more attractive to women than their female counterparts are to men one can easily guess who led this inter species population explosion. Like the film ‘Shirley Valentine’ their men probably stayed home looking glumly at a sink full of dirty pots hoping for a miracle. It also appears the conjunction of a slim black woman and a dumb, virile, extremely hairy male will give rise to a white hairless weakling not unlike myself. Anyway it’s the Fox P2 gene that allows me to voice my prejudices, misunderstandings, ignorance, poor judgments and the bad jokes only I find funny. Under the influence of alcohol it chooses very dubious material and often when I need it most it shrivels up like an ice cold dinky. So thank you Fox P2, it’s been a pleasure, but I think I’ll go with Fox F7, the one that helps me keep my mouth shut when I’ve nothing worthwhile to say. 

Latvia 2, Russia 1.

No not a football score, it’s Stiffmouse page views in the last month from the new ‘stats’ feature of Blogger. At first it was reassuring someone somewhere was reading this dribble but it’s fast becoming a responsibility. How am I going to keep Vladimir happy with tales from Mouseland UK? And Wang To Wee in Beijing because I had 15 from China too. OK 15 from a country of billions isn’t many but when you consider most of them must be working 27 hours a day to provide us with plastic hoola-hoops and T shirts with slogans like, “I’m a western shit faced bastard” on it’s amazing any of them has the time. Then there’s been 50 from the USA and 8 from Canada. 

So welcome losers of the world, you’d be better off riding a bicycle. Having said that please do delve into the archives of earlier blogs, this isn’t a newspaper, it’s a veritable vault of typing effort. It also appears that, “Big Brother with Guns” is the favourite entry. Well doesn’t that go to prove its conclusion; that trash to the sound of warfare is a crowd pleaser. As well as the expected sources of traffic like Facebook and Google there has been one, much to Mothermouse’s amusement, from buypenisenlargement.us Apparently an imagination of a certain disposition has wrongly concluded stiffmouse is a reference to erectile success. Well weren’t you disappointed. 

Penis Enlargement.

Over a pint with lovely young woman and dear friend last eve she told me of a time long ago when, strapped for cash, she joined a club band. These northern gigers knew the scene. Beatles, Stones, Hendrix et al covers, loud fuz boxes and brazen falsetto trouser thrusting. They gave her a Strat to play and suggested a push up bra, red lipstick, miniskirt and tights. She was not though a lady of that direction. She suggested new material but was met with, “Eh lass, thea can’t teach ‘em.” These students of human nature knew what was required. Anything new that’s more than a gnat’s penis away from what we expect and want to hear will not even feature as a blip on the radar. After this story and the relative success of my entry, “Big Brother with Guns” I realised my titles must leap out of search engines with the allure of numerous magnificent plumped up breasts presented on something the size of a dinner tray, so expect future entries like, “Bum Bomb Reality”, “Dogging with Guns, “Sex Romp in Excrement” and “My sheep won’t take it up the bum anymore, with Guns.” That’s for the Welsh separatists. So here I go strapping on a Strat, lipstick done, miniskirt on and my amp up to eleven, it’s Penis Enlargement Time.

My Star.

I sleep under a meter square skylight and most evening gaze up at the night sky in those moments before dreamtime. In autumn and winter it’s often clear and I can see many stars. Other times it’s a fast moving storm or just a cloudy blanket. But through all these changes one star remain bright and steadfast. I’m not sure which one, maybe the North Star, which isn’t of course Mothermouse’s cousin’s local pub of the same name in Royston. I sometimes wonder if it’s my mother’s star watching over me, or my angel’s star seeing me to sleep and keeping me safe. For sure though it’s my constant reassuring companion. In fact I sometimes wonder if it might be the Bethlehem star that has inexplicably moved to north England, hovering above me as a sign of the second coming. That would be nice. Note to self: start writing a gospel. OK there are pros and cons but on the whole, without taking my person desire to stay alive into account, it would be a good thing for the world. And lets face it the Middle East wasn’t the best of choices first time round. No the safe and steady north of England is a far better bet. Must ring round a few friends and organise a get together. But sadly all this is a thing of the past. I’m not Jesus 2, the sequel, I’ve not got an angel looking over me and it isn’t my mother in heaven. It is in fact the reflection of the stand by light on my hi-fi. Now that is a pisser.

Rock & Roll Survival.

Though I say it myself I’m a pretty reasonable guitarist. Over the years I have learned to like muted chords like 9ths, 6ths and augmented but due to the complexities of harmonics they turn to nasty mush through a distortion pedal. I also usually play thoughtful amplified acoustic, which hasn’t acquainted me with such pedals or the thrusting trousers of rock and roll. But due to a personal inclination I decided I wanted to play with the rockers at our Sunday afternoon open jam session populated by pro players on their day off. Daunting, if it wasn’t for the friendly atmosphere. So I sat, or rather stood in with the remnants of the last band who were so keen on continuing banging and twanging they overlooked the fact they were in for a rough ride and their careers would suffer. I roughed out the chord sequence to the other guitarist and left Chris the bass player and the drummer to struggle. The best that can be said is I carried on regardless and everyone else struggled. That’s not to say I was better but that when someone carries on regardless it’s a thankless task to try keeping up with their erratic rhythm and inconsistent melodic directions. But we got a gracious, if sympathetic clap at the end. The reason for relaying this tale of incomplete success is three fold. Firstly it’s good to just decide and do, and accept the fact that taking any new plunge inevitably requires entering cold water. Secondly don’t even begin to justify your reasons; it’s not necessary for other people to understand your stupidity. Thirdly success is not necessary when learning and enjoying: Survival is a worthwhile end in itself. So thank you guys and audience for indulging me.