with The Reverend Harry Figgis

Home Defence UK
A Symptom of a Greater Malaise
I Can't Get No Satisfaction
One could purport that there are no taboos, subjects, or personal circumstances 
that obsess his flock which a man of the cloth should shy away from. Anyone might 
presume, with some justification, that the Church can be relied on to offer succour for 
those who desperately seek a helping hand, if not a finger or two, in their time of need. 
So it was with considerable dismay that I discovered a gaping hole in my knowledge of 
worldly things. God set out certain moral guidelines regarding onanism, but in this contemporary age, scant
attention is paid to the subject of moral fortitude in relation to self-abuse. Following a recent dialogue between your humble servant and a parishioner, a chasm of ignorance opened up before me in the strange hinterland of self-pleasurement. In my mind ‘rabbits’ were only a trifle for Easter’s pagan festivities, or so I mistakenly believed.

As a servant of God many items pass through my moral collection plate, but none so queer as the
‘rampant’ variety of Easter entertainment. Intrigued by this manifestation of Satanic fingering, I embarked
on my own research, quickly uncovering a fascination with such devices in their plethora of guises, designs
and colours. I envisaged my journey as a trip into the heart of darkness, shrouded by raincoat wearers
loitering in seedy shop doorways. Imagine my dismay when I found a veritable hypermarket of love
goods beside my local Marks and Spencer, smack-bang on the high street. This wasn’t just rude, this was
right-next-door-to-a-venerable-British-shopping-institution rude!

Overcoming my initial recalcitrance at being seen to delve into this harlot’s sin-bin, my first port of call was the bog-standard Rampant Rabbit. Several varieties proved themselves both available and prominently displayed. Truly, I was impressed by the ingenuity and simplicity of their aesthetic appeal, not to mention the sheer range of models on offer. I felt 
like a child in his first toyshop, albeit a child with a rather unhealthy vibrator fascination. 

From the basic ‘Wave’ to ‘Thruster, Elite, Threeway, Twister’ and the intriguingly named ‘Thriller’, never has 
so much been available to so many desperate housewives at such an affordable price. Once simply having 
an orgasm meant investing years in training a male spouse to comprehend that ‘heavy petting’ wasn’t akin to 
stain removal with a Brillo Pad. Those days are long past. Who needs a man when some wriggling plastic 
contraption can get the job done in moments, leaving you sated and satisfied with no need to bemoan a 
lifetime of wasted sexual opportunity? 

Still, call me old-fashioned, but somehow the concept of a ‘Dirty Dolphin’ taking the place of a your natural,
organic love trumpet leaves me cold. Some of the devices on offer here would look more at home in
Torquemada’s toolbox than a Barratt Homes bedside cabinet outside Swindon. Indeed, just as no one
expected the Spanish Inquisition, I never suspected to find the ‘Revolver Cock/Ball Holder’. Available for the
general public, without parental guidance or permit required. Forget waterboarding as a means of torture,
bring on the ‘Passion Vibrating Pants’ or the ‘Testicle Tickles Vibrator’. I believe some of these love toys
could extract the truth without so much as a yelp or sigh of satisfaction from a typical terrorist detainee. 

On the other hand, the ‘Aquarius Waterproof Vibrator’ looked uncannily like Robbie the Robot from Lost in Space... 
“Warning, Warning! Danger Will Robinson - your Mother’s bedroom appliance is copulating with the toaster again!” 

This was a more apt visualization than any image I could bring to mind of attaining satisfaction from such a device. Much like the ‘Blue Travel Honeypot’ which at least seemed useful for waxing the car, and I have absolutely no idea what the ‘IGasm Vibrating Love Egg’ hoped to achieve, apart from possible electrocution and a classic demi-wave. My particular favourite was the ‘Purple Penetrator’ which reminded me of a Bishop I once knew. Likewise, the ‘Baby Blue Butt Plug’ left me wondering about the 
sanctity of marriage. Do people actually use these devilish tools without incurring a charge of common assault? 

Finding myself in the women’s ‘dressing up’ department reminded me of a party I attended as a young cleric. Back 
then the vicars and ‘women of ill repute’ get-togethers were a tacit way of expanding one’s public exhibitionism, 
while also getting a few more bums in the pews of a Sunday. But what is the attraction of conducting the beast 
with two backs dressed as a plastic nurse or Thai street trader? Particularly when such an outfit comes with 
painful looking love beads, a prop that would surely be more at home adorning Sri Bagwan Rajneesh than rammed 
into one’s holiest of holies? 

After that the equivalent section for men singularly failed to move me. I can do my own impression of an
elephant by pulling out my trouser pockets. There is no need to actually wear a misshapen sock with
wobbly eyes, and I suspect it takes more to spur your average partner’s love interest than a badly-made
finger puppet. Such accessories were more likely to cause considerable mirth than any moistness at the
prospect of Fingerbob shenanigans. 

To sum up, I came out feeling conned, even subtly interfered with in some way, as if I’d been groomed for 
unspeakable purposes by the local grocer. The presence of these places on the high street, each one filled with 
endless varieties of plastic vibrating device, seem created to replace the role of the male organ in modern society. 
If it’s true that a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle, who in their right mind needs a ‘Dirty Dolphin’? 

Bloody Poles Ate My Goldfish
(and swans, and small children, and my car, and my job…)
I was strolling through the local park with one of my parishioners when we came upon a new lottery-funded 
pond feature, complete with waterfall rockery and assorted shrubs spuriously provided by Camelot or some 
such entity. The pond in question used to be well stocked with all manner of carp, roach and goldfish, but has, of late, been a tad empty when it comes to aquatic life. I surmised that this demise in the goldfish population was probably caused by the recent upsurge in green algae, whereupon my associate declared: “Bollocks, the bloody Poles have had them!” 

He then went on to detail how goldfish are a rare delicacy to the Poles. To obtain said sustenance for free
they've been stealing the creatures from local parks then fattening them up in the bath at home, ready
for Christmas. According to my dim-witted acquaintance, Eastern Europeans have a perverse fascination
for other peoples’ aquatic pets, more akin to the attentions of Hannibal Lecture than keeping them happy
in the family home. 

Thus enlightened, I decided to research this subject and try to find a Krakow-styled Delia Smith recipe. Perhaps there was buttered goldfish, pan-fried in garlic, presented on a bed of wild rocket or spinach and dressed with raspberry compote 
in the true Marks and Spencer style? Well, apparently these Polish buggers don’t document their tendency to 
gorge themselves on our pond life, admitting only a liking for fast food, pizzas and chips, just like everyone else. 
All I could find online was a selection of scathing articles emanating from that bastion of truthfulness, The Sun 
Newspaper. From these it became apparent that the Polish hordes are not only stealing English jobs but 
additionally our goldfish, swans, children and economy, as part of an Eastern European plot to undermine the 
very fabric of English life. They also apparently pick pockets on the Tube, steal your identity, and sleep with all 
your relatives, thereby giving them unspeakable social diseases.

My mind drifted back to an article I perused in some CBI publication a few years back, wherein the author
encouraged an influx of ‘immigrants’, believing them to be our passport into England’s future well being.
Essentially the Eastern European slave market could foot our pension bill, working for peanuts in this glorious
green and pleasant land, thus allowing us to continue living off its fat. 

Mr Hitler had a similar idea, encouraging social mobility among the Slavs to construct his fortifications and
pointless factories in a thousand-year Reich, built upon the bodies of supposedly lesser beings. He also
encouraged a stream of puerile propaganda designed to make this slave army appear less then human,
demonising Slavs alongside Jews and homosexuals. 

So how does this fit in with our present urban myth?

Take it from me, Poles don’t eat Swans, children or “Mother, my puppy!” Nemo. They eat the same sad 
overpriced shit we all have to suffer, just with slightly more beetroot on the side. 
Using poorly researched opinions and prejudices to blame a minority is easier than admitting this costly
shit-hole we call a glorious isle could somehow be at fault. There’s a storm brewing, fed by tabloids
stoking middle England fears, our very own ‘Crystal Nacht’. But perhaps its not too late to learn the
lessons of history, and avoid becoming the thing we used to hate the most.

Amen Indeed.

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