They're on kid's telly now.

There is a kids television show here in the UK called Big Cook Little Cook. I’m not sure if it’s still shown, most things are to fill up our multi-channel world so it probably is. The interesting thing about it is that both the protagonists (or “cooks” as the show would have it) wear rather attractive cardigans. They get mixed up in cookery related shenanigans mediated through cheap CGI, little kids will be thrilled, or perhaps as bored as I was.

The cardigans are however pretty good, though much of the time obscured by aprons (boo hiss) and the two blokes who wear them are reasonably easy on the eye. I wonder where those cards are now? Stuck in some costume repository doing no good at all I would imagine. Sad loss. Still, you can catch them on youtube  in perpetuity probably.

Here’s a couple of screen-grabs including what I believe would be called a facial if it were gentleman’s relish, most likely pudding batter.

                                                                     Christmas Card

                                                                              Facial

The Cardigan Riots

Great moments in Cardigan History

Back in 1964, the era of the mods and rockers, many men wore cardigans. They were fashionable though still, perhaps, considered a little wimpish. They were often hand knitted by mothers and grandmothers.

For anyone who liked them, cardigans were as attractive then as they are now. What they had then that they don’t have now is a following. Men who were inclined to wear them stuck together and identified. To apply the taxonomy outlined above, they were unlikely to be rockers. Though even at the time, when society was in denial about homosexuality it was understood that a gay man could belong to that particular group (cf The Leather Boys, book and film from 1964, a title which at the time was not freighted with the meaning it has now). In short, cardigans were most likely to be worn by mods.

Mods and rockers did not get on. There were skirmishes, often at seaside resorts where the two groups came into conflict at weekends and on bank holidays. These conflicts formed the basis of the big moral panic of the day and were a topic upon which the paid gobs of that time pontificated ad nauseam. Contrary to their predictions the world did not come to an end, although their world did. These days we are a lot better informed and alert to the crap that the likes of  Lord Boothby and Malcolm Muggeridge poured forth. They were hypocrites and quite frankly cunts.

Anyway, my point is about the picture I’ve posted here. I fancy that it was taken during the Great Cardigan Riot of 1964 on Brighton seafront. The cardigan wearers were demanding a change in the law to permit the wearing of cardigans during acts of homosexual congress. This was illegal at the time and many men were in prison as a result. It was believed back then that incarcerating gay men in large, thinly supervised, single sex institutions would go some way to rehabilitating them.

[The information in this piece was drawn from the Quarterly Journal of Idle Speculation and is unlikely to be true. Except for the paid gobs bit, those people really were appalling.]

It's been a long time. I've moved house, I no longer live in the Great Wen. Home will still be referred to as cardigan towers but there'll be a lot more room.

Having all this space has led me to ponder on the nature of space and seeing a story in the papers today about the discovery of gravitational waves led me to reading about the big rip. The big rip is a theory about the end of the universe that will come about in about 22 billion years if certain assumptions are met. All a bit cosmological but anyway, matter falls apart so my cardigans won't need washing any more. The involvement of cardigans in this cataclysm doesn't end there. The illustration below indicates what will happen in the run up to the big rip.

Now it may just be me, almost certainly is, but that image looks decidedly like a cardigan. If I were a "spiritual" person or given to being messianic I'd be writing a couple of paragraphs of bollox about this. As it happens I'm not.

Cardiganwearer is back!

I have the wonders of chemistry to thank for my return.

Regular readers may have noticed my recurring mentions of poppers. I snorted the stuff for years and since the real (butyl) thing became illegal the rocket fuel that powers my obsession has turned into a smelly and much inferior fuel that does frankly fuck all unless inhaled in concentrations that turn one's red bits blue (google cyanosis).

Now I have long known that synthesizing isobutyl nitrite can be done at home but couldn't find some of the raw ingredients anywhere. The missing bits and the rest are now available on a well-known site where you have to put in incremental monetary offers to buy stuff (no names, no picking up on word searches; they're awfully prudish over there and I'd hate the supplies to dry up).

I won't give the recipe here, versions are easy enough to find, if not very easy reliably to execute. Strong acid is involved, no not that sort, the sort that burns holes in things. Take a look at the accompanying picture to see the effects. Other effects include the discovery that so-called stainless steel, the material out of which my kitchen sink is made, simply isn't. It turns black on contact with concentrated acid and the stains seem very reluctant to go. Who would have thought such chemical exposure wasn't part of the manufacturer's quality control?

So, I've managed to make small quantities of the gorgeous sweet smelling supposedly carcinogenic oily ester and it has taken me back to the days when Cardiganwearer was a real character, a man of substance and many exciting cardigans. It's hard to describe the effect it has on me. It's more than a vasodilator and I've rarely used it for that purpose (if you really want to put your fist up my bum, you're going to need a much smaller fist!). It seems to free the imagination and make the faintly ridiculous seem solid and concrete. I used to joke that it releases a hormone called preposterone that makes even the most preposterous things seem deeply erotic. It is interesting that the very few people I've spoken to who share my fetish have used poppers, let's hope they're good at chemistry with expendable kitchenware and cardigans.

While I haven't given the recipe here I'd be happy to exchange notes with anyone engaged in a similar endeavour. I can't and won't be supplying chemicals of any sort.

Now that I've got my mojo back, as it were, I'll see if I can't post more often.

                         

I Like A Good Orgasm.

I am, in common with many, partial too a good orgasm. So, since this blog is not noted for its good taste, I'm going to relate the story of one.

As with most things in my life this is inextricably linked to cardigans, an example of which I always like to wear when protein is to be expelled in the most pleasurable way possible. On this occasion I was wearing a nice lambswool five-button number; it's getting cool enough in this neck of the woods to make wearing such a garment a non-sweaty proposition.

I doubt whether the trajectory of my persuit of orgasm matches exactly that of anyone else, but I imagine that there are certain features in common. The slow start, followed by the incremental stage and then the logarithmic stage reaching an asymptote to the actual expulsion of fluids.

By sheer force of will and the imagination needed to keep the cinema of onan showing  more and more exotic sequels to the blockbuster that got me this far, I find it possible to hover at the asymptote for a protracted period. This was just the stage I was at; incessant thrashing; head thrown back; eyes rolled up into the skull, all accompanied by hyperventilation and loud groaning. Oh yes, it was going to be a good one.

I was on the home straight now, about to slip through that asymptote into uncharted gasm space. Breathing deeply and verbalising some of that wild fantasy, I was ready to splash gentleman's relish onto one of my favourite cardigans. I'm gonna...

"Have you any intention of buying that magazine?" Asked the man behind the counter.

Hence the picture below of an unbesmirched cardigan.

 

Cardigan Towers

Not posted anything for a while, if you’ve been following this blog you will be aware that Cardigan Towers has been undergoing a bit of a refurbishment. You may also recall that I promised a glimpse when it’s finished. Well, finished it is, except for a bit of tidying up. So here’s a little look into Cardiganwearers world.

It’s taken through the door of my bedroom, otherwise known as the Cardigan Room. In an ideal world I’d have a cardigan room as well as a bedroom but the cost of living in Cardiganland precludes that possibility. Given that what you see is an extension to a cardboard box in a multi storey car park on the outskirts of Cardiganland, I think it’s come out quite well.

You can see my shoe rack; regular readers might be surprised to hear that I wear shoes as well as cardigans. Above that on the mantelpiece is a favourite photograph, which can be seen elsewhere on this blog. Just visible to the left of that is the chrome plated sheen of  a well used Gomco circumcision clamp, now enjoying a comfortable retirement after a lifetime of cock-enhancing work.

And what’s this? There would appear to be a cardigan in shot, how did that get there?

It may have come from the three boxes of them to the right of the fireplace. And they’re not the only ones, yes I’ve been able to unpack all the cards I put away while the work was being done; I’m whole again. Atop the bookcase from which the cardigan hangs you can see a fan; given the peculiarity of my interest it may be my only one.

That’ll be all for today except to thank a reader, Gary S, who left a comment, or so I was informed by email, but I can’t find it in the comments section of the blog. Probably my own fault, but thanks again Gary, good to hear someone reads this shit.

Sporting Cardigans 2

For the second in my sporting cardigans mini series I'm going to take a brief look at the bowls cardigan. That's bowls, not bowling; the British game of marbles played by elderly gentlemen (and some ladies) on billiard-table smooth lawns or indoors. I know little about the game itself, but it's enthusiasts appear to be old and competitive. A look at their websites reveals this latter trait, they seem obsessed with competing and winning. A secondary, but also important concern seems to be with the sartorial; competing and being well dressed seem to go hand in hand.

In a sense this is understandable. Some people are just competitive and when the body starts to exhibit those failures and limitations which flesh is heir to, a more sedate outlet for this naked aggression is likely to be sought. Bowls would appear to be such an outlet.

I illustrate my piece with a picture of a Balmoral  bowls cardigan, one I bought on ebay. I have another which I bought from a bowls outfitter on Scotland. They are made of a dense and thick acrylic with five 2-hole buttons. They appear to be generously sized probably to enable their increasingly portly wearers to claim to be medium when they're in fact, how to put this politely... er... not. They are always white, the cardigans and their wearers. Being white they show stains, which in my experience don't wash out too well, so real enthusiasts need to watch where they're putting their gentleman's relish.

I have done an extensive search today and discovered that they are no longer available, can't find the men's version anywhere. We may have seen the end of an era.

Not a word of the following is true.

I used to help out at the local bowls club, helping the elderly gentlemen in their clubhouse. They used to get changed into their whites before matches and most of them wore the bowls cardigans. Some of them used to encourage me to help with their cardigan buttons and one of them, a particularly portly gent, name of Flowers took a particular interest in me.

I didn't think much to it. He was a married man and I wasn't really much of a gerontophile, apart from wanting to help portly elderly gents with their cardigans at the weekend. This particular Sunday he had made sure he pressed his ample tummy against me as I helped him on with his cardigan and I must confess I copped a feel just to feel how prominent and curvaceous it was. This appeared not to be lost on him, as the match proceeded he glanced in my direction on several occasions.

As with all bowls matches, what seemed like hours of tedium were leavened with moments of sheer monotony to the extent that it would not be hard to persuade oneself that these players out there on the lawn had started the game as much younger men. At last it finished and all retired to the clubhouse to boast of their achievements and remove their cardigans, a task with which I was enthusiastic to help.

I was to be thwarted in my desire to play with a lot of cardigans by Mr. Flowers's insistence that I help him and only him, and that interrupted by his insistence that he give me a lift home in his car. He was most forceful and I soon found myself in the passenger seat of his car. Large as it was, and commodious as the interior was, Mr. Flowers was a tight squeeze behind the wheel, his embonpoint  having been emphasised by his seated position. So enthusiastic had he been earlier to leave the clubhouse with me in tow that he still wore the sporting cardigan, now somewhat distended by his posture.

We set off, not in the direction of my place but his. He told me during the brief journey that his wife was away and that she didn't understand him anyway. At this point he put his hand on my knee. We eventually arrived at his house and he invited me in. By this time I was intoxicated by the sight of cardigan restraining ample tummy and followed him.

He closed the front door and bade me wait in the hall while he disappeared upstairs, he came down moments later and invited me to follow him upstairs. Bereft of all other garments he was still wearing the cardigan.

I shan't bore you with the details. Suffice to say he had an old fashioned view of sex, gentleman on top and very much in charge. I remember the sheer weight of him compressing me and the vigour with which he had to fuck to reach orgasm. I didn't have one and wasn't invited to have one, I suspect he was unused to his sexual partners having such things.

He appeared less frequently at the bowls club after that and eventually I heard through the other members that he had died of a heart attack. One of his closer friends brought me a cardigan. It had belonged to Mr. Flowers. The friend, who had helped his wife clear out some things, thought I might like it.

Like I said, they stain easily, and it doesn't wash out.

I took a photograph of Mr. Flowers on my phone that day. I still have it but those prudes at google have deemed it unsuitable so I've had to remove it.