Primark's knob, Street Porter's shame & my sacandalous behaviour on a train

25 Sep 2016 at 13:25

I haven’t made up my mind which is more shocking, Brooks Primark trying to copywrite photos of his todger or Janet Street Porter having to pay a former lover to give back a Polaroid of her performing a ‘sex act’. For those not in the know this is Fleetstreeteese for a blow job. It’s really quite a terrifying thought as Janet is blessed with a set of gnashers that could core an apple through a tennis racquet. The recipient of her favours must have ended up with a willy like a skinned rabbit; a bridge too far. At the very least the photo the Bobbitized little thing should been donated to the Royal College of Reconstructive Surgeons to be passed round at their Christmas drinks party.

I have never understood why people take photos of their cocks. It is quite widespread I am told. But it is bound to fall into the wrong hands. MPs are always flattered by the number of followers they have on social media. They think it is a sign of their importance. To a certain extent it is. The the press are not interested in the fact that they have just opened a school, visited a hospital or their thoughts on the war in Syria. We just lay in wait for that drunken rant that appears after midnight at party conference or the accidental favouriting of a porn site. Poor old Primark will never stop those pictures appearing. He can’t disinvent them. And he has just given a long forgotten story legs or I suppose texticles. How does he classify them? ’Primark’s penis at ease…..standing to attention….in the cold…..poking out of the Paisley Jim jams?’ Some old boy is going to have to go through the lot and catalogue them. Of course we won’t be entitled to see them, which is good news for the splendid Rod Liddle who is kept up at night with ectoplasmic nightmares of the Primark todger floating Casperlike though his bedroom ducking and diving like Marley’s ghost. But the little chap will be described in great detail to ensure what precisely we aren’t allowed to see. It will be a field day for lawyers and create quite a lot of subpoenas envy I fear.

But thank heavens there was no social media nor camera phones when I was an MP. There is one event that still sends shivers down my spine and turns my bowels to water when I think about it. I was on a train my way home after a refreshing dinner and was trying to read my Evening Standard but was being constantly interrupted by a couple of rather pissed girls who recognised me.‘Please let me read my paper in peace,’ I begged. ‘Alright then, just give us your autograph’. Well, that was an easy one.‘Of course,’ I benignly smiled whipping out a biro. Then to the squeals of their delight I realised I had fallen into a trap. ‘On our tits!!!!’ they giggled as they lifted their tops. And, do you know, I did. The thought of it.

Although not quite in the same vein let us turn to a knob to end all knobs, a prince within the Kingdom of the knoberatti, a testosterone fuelled bundle of blubber where women of a certain age swoon at the sight of the sizeable bulge in his wallet. Well, Paul Hollywood’s wallet is now bulging to the tune of £7 million. I can’t say I blame him for jumping on board Channel 4’s Great British Rake Off. He is only fifty and you only get that chance of a pot of gold once in a lifetime. But the MAIL has already made him a pantomime villain alongside Sir Shifty Green. ‘Greedy Rat’ coupled with a photo of a greedy looking Hollywood. Actually, I feel a bit sorry for him. But I suppose you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few egos.

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