Poppers

I am sure I'm not alone in noticing the decline in the quality of poppers; the current variety are shite. It seems the old formulation is now illegal within the EU, something to do with rats getting cancer if they're immersed in the stuff for half their lives.

As a complete screaming pervert I rather relied on the old amyl nitrite to fire up the imagination and make almost anything into a turn-on. I have a theory that poppers promote the release of a hormone, hitherto unknown to science (and because you cant get the real stuff anymore, likely to remain that way), preposterone which makes even the most preposterous things seem sexy. This "theory" remains in the realms of idle speculation; my chance of a Nobel prize having been scuppered by a piece of unimaginative legislation preventing further legitimate experimentation.

All is not lost; there are brands out there that give nearly the rush of the old stuff. These are the large bottle brands, Iron Horse and similar but I suspect they just succeed because the larger diameter neck on the bottle permits a bigger dose.

More hope, too, emerges from the fact that it is only illegal to sell the old formula stuff, not to possess it or even manufacture it. The chemistry is simple, the procedure not too complicated and the chemicals easy to get in principal. My reservation is that getting these chemicals will arouse suspicion and I think any nitrate chemical purchases will flag something dodgy to various authorities. Protesting that you use the stuff to fuel a weird fetish will probably only attract even more unwelcome scrutiny; in short you're fucked.

Regular readers (yeah, just me...) will have noticed that I've not posted for a while. This is because of the turmoil produced by the refurbishment of Cardigan Towers. It's going well and I'll post some pictures at some stage.

You can see a vid of me wearing this at


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jCb6FYlOcyY



Will post more soon, do look in again.

Yearbook and Memory

You’ll all be familiar with the yearbook, though if you’re a Brit like me probably not too familiar. If I get this hopelessly wrong perhaps someone will be kind enough to tell me. My understanding is that each year through school a year group publishes a book with pictures of all the year’s members and a little bit of information about each, achievements, aspirations and so forth.

Some years ago I heard a short story about gawkers at road accidents, those people who gather round at such events. Their purpose is to inhibit the approach of a doctor, hence the expression “let me through I’m a doctor”. If these people weren’t there the doctor would have unrestricted access to the injured party and no reason to call out and announce his or her  status. Thus the gawkers have a function in enabling medical help to identify itself; that they may delay access is a small price to pay for the essential identification function.

None of this was in the short story, that concerned itself with an observation that all gawkers are in fact the same people, at all locations and all times. The suggestion was that there is a group of people who are forced to attend road accidents as a kind of curse (as opposed to paramedics, for whom it is a job). This was meant to sound rather sinister and mysterious in precisely the way my description has failed to convey.

What has this to do with yearbooks or indeed cardigans, which have gone three paragraphs without a mention? Well it is my contention that there was a cardigan wearer in all years at all schools and they can be tracked through yearbooks. Here in the UK obviously not, we don’t have yearbooks but we do have cardigans, there’s just no pictorial record of them at school. There was one in the year below me at my school and as far as I could tell at the time he thrust his cardigan at me in a provocative manner more than once; let’s hope he’s still wearing one.

Anyway, my illustration this week is a mock up of what might be lurking in yearbooks and in my case is lurking in my memory.

TV Show

My apologies to anyone who reads this regularly, but I missed a week. I've been having work done at Cardigan Towers and simply forgot amid the chaos.


The following could only happen in a universe where HIV never happened, it's pure fantasy.

Here's a pitch for a television show, might find a late slot on a porno cable channel or a gay cable channel if such exist. We'll use the working title "That Cardigan Show", it'll be studio based with an audience, have discussions, guests and much filth. There will be pre- filmed inserts of cardigan related fun outside the studio, made by the presenters. These may and probably will show explicit sex.

So, who to present it? I think we need two presenters, one obviously Dead Butch, the other Less So. The former, with a view to a potentially large market might be American; in fact he will be. He'll be circumcised too, and a provocative advocate for it. That will give us the basis for some good banter between the presenters. The Less So presenter will clearly be what Dead Butch would call a catcher.

They'll wear cardigans and posing pouches only and appear before an invited audience who will be required all to wear cardigans. An ongoing thread in the show will be the 'pot-o-spooge', being a tub of gentleman's relish provided by the studio audience and sent in by the audience at home. There could be an insert each week visiting a bunch of cardigan guys who have volunteered to contribute and we'll be able to see what they get up to in the production of that contribution, which is added to the pot back in the studio.

A member of the audience may be interviewed about some aspect of cardigan fetishism and as a reward have a large dollop from the pot splattered on his cardigan, in the 'cardigan custard' spot. Another volunteer from the audience may get the chance to drink from the pot through a straw as a reward for answering correctly some cardigan related questions in a 'mastermind' setting. At the end of the series the remaining spooge could be used to dunk a whole cardigan or someone could drink it. Perhaps a spooge gun could be created and a golden shot style spooge the cardigan target game could be arranged. 'Bernie, the spooge' could become a catchphrase.

Another studio item might be 'beat the cock' a race to orgasm between audience volunteers along the lines of the biscuit game.

The inserts can have our hosts visiting places of cardigan interest. Butch would ideally be a porn star and poster-boy for cardigan wearers. Each week an audience member who has submitted a photograph of his bedroom adorned with a poster of Butch will receive a 'surprise' visit and get a seriously good seeing to. Butch would also be on the road in the ‘cardivan’ encouraging cardigan wearing and promoting circumcision. We might even get a volunteer for circumcision and follow him through the process. There could be a visit to America where Butch dons a letter cardigan and gives the boy cheerleaders something to celebrate.

Less So can visit places like a dildo factory where he will invariably become the unsuspecting victim of hilarious consequences, usually involving penetration, large sizes and his anus. To this end there may be the occasional involvement of a football or rugby team. A highlight of the series could be a visit to an army barracks. A farm visit or a trip to a bottling plant might easily see Less So end up in casualty having to explain how 'that' got up there. The other participants in these items will be in the audience and come down to be presented in their custard besmirched cardigans. Less So could be involved in ‘dilation challenge’ where he vies with members of the audience to accommodate large and unusual objects with Butch on hand to loosen them up and make sure the objects go right in.

An element of the programme could be given over to portly, elderly cardigan wearers and perhaps visits to golf clubs or bowling greens where such gentlemen wear cardigans. Both presenters could be involved in this segment, giving and receiving.

The core value in the show will not be simple bawdiness but sheer filth, lots of cardigans, unbuttoning and much splattering of sperm both bottled and draught. The after-show party will be something else, and as producer, I’ll be there every week.

The closing credits will see our presenters taking a champagne bottle out of an ice bucket, we see it's labelled Spooge and indeed that's what it contains. They each pour a small quantity into an old fashioned champagne glass, toast (ding of glasses), take a sip and hen pour the rest down their cardigans.

A caption comes on saying "All the spooge used in this programme is genuine gentleman's discharge". They pour another glass and drink deeply.

I've a feeling Simon Cowell will not be interested in this format.

Further to my previous....

Well, it happened. I'm having some work done at Cardigan Towers and have had to show decorators and sundry tradesman around the place making massive and unreasonable demands (there's no point living in a place that's painted the wrong colour!). Naturally, the poster came down, as did a couple of adornments on the base of my bed. What I completely forgot about was a picture standing on the mantelpiece looking like the illustration below; I'm so used to it I simply don't see it any more. For regular readers of this blog (ha ha!) It'll be a somewhat familiar image, referred to elsewhere as a cracking cardigan.  It's about 6cm x 4cm and looks like a framed photograph.

So, people have been in and out to measure stuff and to bleed radiators and various other tasks and have naturally said nothing; they are after all British. Except for the plumbers, they're Polish, don't know how cardigans go down in that neck of the woods, but they know I'm British so probably expect a certain level of weirdness. I can't even say I was caused any embarrassment as I was unaware of it at the time.

The other upshot of this getting stuff done business is having to pack things up to clear rooms for various artisans to ply their trades. This has meant a chunk of the cardigan collection has had to be packed away in black bags and piled up out of the way. Thus my rack of assorted cards (see the picture with my last post) is no longer easily available and my choice is limited if I'm not going to rummage through bags. I am a fetishist, I miss my cardigan collection. I have acesss to only a few specimens and I'm missing them. Added to that the weather is getting warmer by the day and my excuse to wear them when I go out is declining. No, please, no sympathy, it's my own fault (well, not the weather obviously) and I must live with the consequences of my decisions. Perhaps next week I'll have something more cheerfull to relate.

Making my room cardigan freindly

Some considerable time back I decided to indulge myself in a fully cardigan-centric lifestyle. To this end I used an image, which has found its way round the web among the few aficionados of my particular fetish, to make a large poster out of multiple sheets of A4. I used a site called rasterbation. If they ever look at the images which pass through their site I can't imagine what they may have made of this one, they never came back to me despite having an email address to which they delivered the image as multiple PDFs. I fondly imagine they thought, "huh, another cardigan fetishist" and took little notice of it, much in the same way the thousands of visitors to this blog probably do (I don't use smilies, but you get my drift.).

Anyway, great image, practically life-size, on my wall to remind me what I know anyway. The real thrill is that my familiarity with it makes me forget it's there, with potentially hilarious consequences. Perhaps I'll reveal more in a later post.

Anyway, here's what it looks like, taken on a crap camera, so bad it seems unable properly to resolve a gentleman's enbonpoint.

You're going to tell me it's juvenile, aren't you? Well yes it is, but I like it.

Birthday

I well remember what I consider my cardigan birthday, I even remember the date. It was November 11th. 19--. I had been working for about three months in my first job and saw a nice white five button cardigan in a shop near where I worked. The shop was one of those independent menswear shops which are few and far between these days; it's now a kebab shop and has been for a long time.

I eyed up the cardigan in question over a few days, tempting myself each day as I passed the shop en route to the tube station as I made my way home. I had to pluck up the courage to go into the shop to buy it, as if it were some special under-the-counter item of dubious legality. To me, in a sense, it was; to the shop proprietor who eventually sold it to me without a second thought, it was a cardigan, nothing special.

I entered the shop trying to look nonchalant, despite being positively fizzing with excitement and asked for the cardigan that was on display in the window. It was duly produced and I was asked if I'd like to try it on. I declined, thinking the shop proprietor was about to say something along the lines of, "go on try it, we all know why you're buying it... we've got you trapped now, you will never know an end to this." Instead he just put it into a bag and took my money. I scurried out into the early evening air and breathed a sigh of relief before hurrying to the station to get home.

The journey took forever, and I kept feeling the package to see if I could feel the buttons. Disappointingly I couldn't, this meant that by the time I arrived home I was in a frenzy. I ran to my bedroom, took all my clothes off and put the cardigan on, my first cardigan! It felt absolutely right, just proper and correct, the very thing; it should always have been thus. And it has been since. I slept in it that night, something I’ve rarely done since.

That particular garment lasted for a few years, it soon had company at the bottom of the wardrobe. In the end it was damaged in the tumble dryer, too hot, but I still wore it. It was eventually thrown out in a purge, something I regret. I may well hold forth about purges at a later date, an interesting phenomenon and not unique to me or to cardigans.

My illustration for this entry is of a cardigan nothing like the one I’ve been talking about, except for the buttons. They are of exactly the same design as the ones on the proto-cardigan, they differ only in colour. So come November 11th., join me in celebrating my cardigan birthday.

Fred Perry

Among the earlier cardigans I bought was an original Fred Perry, this will have been in the early eighties.

A little history to begin, Fred Perry was an English tennis player in the thirties, did well at Wimbledon (may have won, I don't know, I never get the sport questions right) and then pissed off the tennis establishment by turning professional. He ended up in America reasonably wealthy having in the course of his career sold his name to a clothing label.

The Fred Perry cardigan was an acrylic creation with plastic faux leather buttons, six in number, made to look like footballs. They were available in plain finish or an argyle pattern. They had the trademark laurels on the left chest and to my eyes owed something to the style of American letter cardigans I discussed a while back. They were very popular at the time and I certainly thought they looked well sexy. They now command preposterously high prices on EBay. I have one of the plain ones, in a rather sorry state; it's been through the washing machine too many times. I am more than happy to be boastful and indiscreet and say that it is my, how to put this delicately, most "gigged" cardigan, if you get my meaning.

The label continues to this day and seems to have moved upmarket in price and now occupies a designer niche. The football style buttons are long gone and more upmarket fabrics are now the norm; fings certainly ain't wot they used to be. Times may have changed but the fond memories will, however, remain with me as detailed and vibrant as the day they were acquired (the rash cleared up after a few days, fortunately).

Here’s a nicely photographed one that sold on EBay some time ago.