Russ in Cheshire

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We had a deal: she wouldnā€™t tell you about my invisible pet dinosaur, and I wouldnā€™t tell you she was born a man.
I guess that dealā€™s blown out of the water, so anything goes now. Not that Iā€™m upset about her guest blog! I laughed, I wept, I hurled, but most of all I was just impressed that she managed to stick to the English language.
Because speech is a thing that my beloved has trouble with. God knows, she tries. You canā€™t say sheā€™s not giving it her best effort. Sheā€™s a sensitive soul, and I suspect she feels deeply for those poor people who are struck dumb, so sheā€™s doing her utmost to say all the things they want to say. All of them. All of the time. Thankfully sheā€™s got a special way to stop my ears from melting in the onslaught, which is to give me regular ā€œwet williesā€, interspersed with loving smacks around the head.
Even performing the wet willy doesnā€™t silence her. In fact I think her record for being quiet is about as long as it takes her to take a breath, and even sleep isnā€™t enough to stop her completely. Her nighttime blabbering would keep me awake if it wasnā€™t for the fact Iā€™m usually already awake because of her mattress fascism.
What, you may ask, is mattress fascism? Iā€™ll tell you. When I first moved out of my parentsā€™ home I got a double bed, thinking that I might lure women into it (I didnā€™t). But when I eventually did get somebody drunk enough to get in my bed, I realised a double bed isnā€™t big enough: Iā€™m a stocky fella, and itā€™s hard to fit a normal-sized woman into my bed with me. So a year or two later I got a king sized, and that seemed to solve the problem. The lucky lady had enough room to sleep off her shame, and I had enough room to sleep off my smugness, and everybody was happy apart from the poor girl whoā€™d just experienced me in the nude.
But the size of bed makes no difference to my little angel, because my little angel is a mattress fascist. Sheā€™s determined to invade and take over every inch of the bed, regardless of who it belongs to, and is quite prepared to employ magic to ensure it happens.
Within 30 seconds of lights-out she does something I thought was impossible: she rolls clockwise to wrap herself in the entire duvet, leaving none at all for me; and she simultaneously rolls anticlockwise across the bed, shoving me into a 4-inch wide strip down the edge of the mattress. How can she rotate in both directions at once? Clearly sheā€™s a witch.
Burn the witch!
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Her sex face. You can see why I prefer doggy style.
(I could take her into the back garden and burn her with the leaves, although with her skin colour ā€“ slightly paler than an albino polo mint ā€“ just sending her outside on a sunny day would do the trick, and nobody has to tell the police. Deal?)
So I can look over the body of my beautiful, comely, sweetly-sleeping mattress fascist, and see acres of empty bed, inviting and cool and spaciousā€¦ and utterly unavailable to me. Iā€™m trapped in the nocturnal equivalent of Gaza, and sheā€™s blockading my sleep. Canā€™t Kofi Annan do anything about this?
And then the gibbering begins. Iā€™ll be lying there, wide awake, being baked by her hot body (in both senses) squeezing me off the edge of the mattress, and feeling utterly oppressed in my own bed; and sheā€™ll suddenly announce, ā€œmotorbike underfelt carnival handbagā€, like itā€™s the beginning of a lecture, and then fart, hit me with her hair, and snore loudly.
I just ignore it now, but the first few times I thought the gibberish meant something. Itā€™s understandable that I would: sheā€™s almost as nonsensical when sheā€™s awake, and half of our time together is taken up by me wrestling with the mangled syntax she hurls at me. (The other half is spent simply wrestling).
You see, she does terrible, terrible things to the English language. Perhaps itā€™s because sheā€™s a Celt. She was born over here, in leafy, moneyed Cheshire, where she learned to kill foxes, shoot guns and speak in a nice, if highly creative way. But she could barely be more Irish if you found her eating mud in a bog in Donegal with a pig under her arm.
She has that lovely Irish skin too: itā€™s the colour of the stuff that peels of the bottom of my feet after Iā€™ve spent too long in the bath. And thereā€™s the Irish hair, which responds pretty well to a severe industrial ironing every couple of hours, but left to its own devices manages to look like it was dragged through a hedge and look like the hedge it was dragged through. Clever trick that.
So English might be her mother tongue, but I doubt itā€™s her grandmother tongue, and in her case her ancestry is taking over her glottis. Throwing caution to the wind, sheā€™s running (with scissors) through the dictionary, cutting-and-pasting as she goes. As a result, she manages to inventerise wordments at every juncticle, like Stanley Unwin after a few too many sherrys, deepjoy.

I may be painting her in a bad light, and I realise this might all sound a bit mean-spirited. But itā€™s not: sheā€™s actually rather lovely, but in ways that itā€™s very hard to make any sense of. Examples:
  • She recently spent half an hour loudly performing whale-song to my scrotum, in the belief it might make it go smooth. It didnā€™t, I just laughed so much I wet the bed.
  • She lured me into a long confusing discussion about whether itā€™s possible to smash two ducks together in a vast underground accelerator, at close to the speed of light, in the hope that the collision will produce a high-energy chaffinch.
  • She has an odd habit of licking the inside my nostril or, for variety, putting my whole nose in her mouth and blowing until I emit a strangled parp like a tuba being raped. Thatā€™s normal, isnā€™t it? Isnā€™t it?
  • Alarmingly, this future primary-school teacher, who is sensitive to the needs and concerns of our nationā€™s young, responded to my taunt that she was born a man by shouting ā€œYeah, and my dickā€™s bigger than yours tooā€ in front of several 8 year olds.
I believe her about her dick, but my tits are bigger than hers, so itā€™s swings and roundabouts.
Lots of things about her are quite male, actually. Sheā€™s got quite a blokey brain, and surprises me with her knowledge of carburetors, her sense of direction, her hairy back, and her charming habit of lifting one cheek and gurning when she farts, which is often. And then she laughs like a drain, and smells like one too.
Donā€™t get me wrong: itā€™s a lovely bottom. Itā€™s got the kind of tiny, imperceptible bouncy wobble that makes my mouth dry up and my nether-regions spasm, and she oscillates it beautifully every time she walks away to commit chemical atrocities in my spare bathroom. It wasnā€™t a spare bathroom until she started using it, but now I dursnā€™t go in there for any money. I call the hallway leading to that bathroom ā€œChemical Alleyā€.
So thereā€™s a permanent ā€œno naked flamesā€ rule near her, in case you ignite something noxious and burn off herā€¦ I was going to say ā€œher eyebrowsā€, but thatā€™s not quite right. ā€œHer unibrowā€ is a better expression. Because the other thing about her which makes me think sheā€™s a man ā€“ specifically Liam Gallagher ā€“ is her solitary eyebrow. Itā€™s like Groucho Marxā€™s moustache has taken residence on her forehead. Sheā€™s getting a strimmer for Christmas.
Iā€™m aware that some people who read this blog are my friends, and are probably concerned for my wellbeing at this stage. Iā€™ve just described a possibly mental, definitely violent, crypto-transvestite fascist furball, who is in control of deadly recto-biological weaponry and knows where I sleep (because sheā€™s the border guard). Not only that, sheā€™s half my age, half my size, twice my speed and twice my kidneys; and as a resident of one of the wealthiest towns in Britain sheā€™s got ample experience of shooting peasants and hunting foxes (and ladies, Iā€™m one foxy peasant, ding-dong). So thereā€™s very little chance of me getting away from her if she chooses to attack.
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Me, on date night.
But rest easy, friends: she chooses to attack almost hourly, and so far Iā€™ve survived. Even when sheā€™s being loving and gentle, it somehow often leads to a painful knee to the dangleberries, a bite on the face, a blizzard of tickling and being flicked on the head, or a thorough test of whether it hurts more to be punched in the kidney or in the place where my other kidney used to be. I put it down to her having an enquiring mind, and a penchant for bloodthirsty experimentation.
Example: during a recent motorway trip, she decided to show her affection by squeezing my head as I drove, and in doing so managed to shove her thumb under my eyelid, leaving me blind at 70mph in heavy traffic. This is normal for us. This is every day.
Any trip with her in a car is a risky enterprise, because when sheā€™s not blinding me she subjects me to a torrent of pokes, kicks, tickles, bites to the shoulder and head, and drooling tongues shoved in my ear. Not in a sexual way either: just to annoy me.
So Iā€™m wondering if weā€™re in love, or in a war. It could be either, but itā€™s probably both. Iā€™m only telling you this stuff in case Iā€™m found dead one morning: the chances are, it was an accident, but no coroner would come to that conclusion if they found me battered and blinded, with my head covered in bites, freezing in my own bed, and possibly with a thing inserted in my bum and abusive notes left on my bedside table. For the record: all of that is perfectly normal and above-board.
Consider this a legal statement, because when she reads this I suspect Iā€™ll need one.
Are the police aware this psychopath? šŸ˜¬ I couldn't read more than a few lines.
 
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There should honestly be a word for the pleasure of discovering a Tattle thread for someone whose been a peripheral irritant in your feed, introduced only by other people's likes and RTs, and finding out all the tea and scandal! Somehow the grifting and old blog had passed me by, he just had a twatty vibe.

Anyway I've been cackling like a loon for all 11 pages and am pitching my deckchair right HERE :ROFLMAO: :ROFLMAO: :ROFLMAO: :ROFLMAO:
 
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On football he has some prettyā€¦ ick views. Tweets incessantly about it as itā€™s another personality replacement, so still scouring tweets for more gross references, but:

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Also hate this following tweet cos the implication is thereā€™s a problem with football fans, rather than the whole country?

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To absolutely no oneā€™s surprise another grammar school reared raging snob who still claims WC credentials despite being FIFTY TWO so far, far away from the horrors of having to live with a mechanic father

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A quick Google shows that Auden Grammar school became fully comprehensive in the late 1970s. Before Russ Jones would have attended it.

surely Russ isn't lying about his education?
 
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I have the weird OH situation where he rightly loathes RearFooFooMan but likes Jack Monroe.

At least we can gather around this smug faced grifting duck.
I think I need to stage an intervention in the WinnyT household. Mr WinnyT thinks RearFooFooMan is the funniest thing ever with his wacky week in Tory shite. He literally sits guffawing and reading it out to me. Itā€™s just not that good. This is even after I told him about the dodgy sex blog and him being a raging misogynist - ā€œoh but week in Tory is so funnyā€ā€¦
 
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I think I need to stage an intervention in the WinnyT household. Mr WinnyT thinks RearFooFooMan is the funniest thing ever with his wacky week in Tory shite. He literally sits guffawing and reading it out to me. Itā€™s just not that good. This is even after I told him about the dodgy sex blog and him being a raging misogynist - ā€œoh but week in Tory is so funnyā€ā€¦
10BED1F0-DB9E-474A-A7D3-869038A65A8B.jpeg
 
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He is definitely the sort of man who smugly tells women he's trying to date (probably too early in the initial conversations) that he enjoys giving oral sex but turns out not to be very good at all.
 
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He is definitely the sort of man who smugly tells women he's trying to date (probably too early in the initial conversations) that he enjoys giving oral sex but turns out not to be very good at all.
The thought of that beard is making me want to superglue my legs together
 
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Thankyou (I think?) whoever brought this horror to my attention. Quite unbelievable. I would've thought it was a parody account tbh.
How is it that so many Jack adjacent people turn out to be insufferable - see also Roadside Mum.
 
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Someone should set him and Jack up for guardian blind dates. Itā€™s what they deserve
After 2 dates heā€™d be tweeting parenting advice on account of the fact heā€™s ā€œpractically a stepfather to SBā€ and the Week in Tory would change to the Week in Slopā€¦
 
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So there I was, sitting in my one of my favourite restaurants, doodling away on the napkin - tits and fannies if you must know, but itā€™s my RIGHT as a MAN and thatā€™s feminism, baby - slowly nursing a little chub as I did so. My doodles were turning me on, you see, because Iā€™m a powerfully sexual man in a lot of ways that I donā€™t like to talk about, but if youā€™re a sexy lady I will, whether you want to or not.


Anyway, I was sitting there, and I noticed a table across the way, with six youngish lads all having something of a low-key, but clearly heated argument. Aha, I thought, this is a job for me, because Iā€™m all about solutions, I look at problems, size up the data, and then fix it. Iā€™ve had decades of experience, for which Iā€™ve been paid various amounts of money. So I thought ā€˜You know, Russell, old boy (not ā€˜old chapā€™, which is what I call my erection), you could do these lads a solid. Thatā€™s right, SOLID. Just like when I slip it in.

So I went over, sat down with them, and found out they were a boyband from Korea - I knew they werenā€™t ā€˜localā€™ - I mean, Iā€™d do the ā€˜slitty-eyesā€™ movement here, but no doubt Iā€™d get cancelled for that. Now, usually I have no time for music like that - Iā€™ve been around that world a LOT, and know everything about it, and boybands and the people who like them are stupid. Theyā€™re stupid people. What I mean is, they (the people who like that music) are a lot less scientifically intelligent than me (Russell), because they are stupid and I am not. Very few people are as intelligent as me, of course, itā€™s just a measurable fact. Like the length of my penis, the one which wakes me up every morning and have to spank until it cries at me.

It seems they were unhappy with one of their members, and were looking to replace him. Well, I thought, from what they were saying, this J-Hope lad sounded like he was a stupid person, one of ā€˜The Stupidsā€™, as I call nearly everyone. And as it happened, I thought I could bring a special twist to these boys special blend of hip-hop, R&B and light rock, along with some obviously much-needed intelligence. I suggested this, and they all looked at each other enthusiastically, and instantly agreed. At this point I was very much needed to have a Number One (a prelude to the many Number Ones weā€™d all have together), and went to have one, holding my penis as I did so. Things were changing for olā€™Russ, I thought. All of this UX stuff Iā€™m so amazingly good at was about to stand for Unbelievable luXury!

But when I got back to the table, theyā€™d all gone. It must have been too much for them as a concept, and I later found out theyā€™d patched it up with the other bloke and gone on to unbelievable success. But, and I like to duck ladies, for a moment I was the seventh member of BTS. As it turned out, I think all that travel and money and youthful groupies and success and youthful groupies and sex and youthful groupies would have been a bit much, so Iā€™m glad it didnā€™t happen.

Or do I cry myself to sleep over it every night? Relentlessly. OH WHO CAN TELL! Not me. Iā€™m just over here, designing some UX. As you do.

My penis.
 
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He is definitely the sort of man who smugly tells women he's trying to date (probably too early in the initial conversations) that he enjoys giving oral sex but turns out not to be very good at all.
Oh my god this is IT.
 
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He is definitely the sort of man who smugly tells women he's trying to date (probably too early in the initial conversations) that he enjoys giving oral sex but turns out not to be very good at all.
Funny you should mention that...

Screenshot_20220717-180732_Chrome.jpg


The full post - not for the squeamish: https://honeyncream.wordpress.com/2012/05/08/put-your-money-shot-where-my-mouth-is/

Includes Russ's full guide to cunnilingus, followed by complaints about how bad women are at sucking dick (no tit. If the dick in question belonged to RussInCheshire, you'd go at it like it was made of chewing gum).
 
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So there I was, sitting in my one of my favourite restaurants, doodling away on the napkin - tits and fannies if you must know, but itā€™s my RIGHT as a MAN and thatā€™s feminism, baby - slowly nursing a little chub as I did so. My doodles were turning me on, you see, because Iā€™m a powerfully sexual man in a lot of ways that I donā€™t like to talk about, but if youā€™re a sexy lady I will, whether you want to or not.


Anyway, I was sitting there, and I noticed a table across the way, with six youngish lads all having something of a low-key, but clearly heated argument. Aha, I thought, this is a job for me, because Iā€™m all about solutions, I look at problems, size up the data, and then fix it. Iā€™ve had decades of experience, for which Iā€™ve been paid various amounts of money. So I thought ā€˜You know, Russell, old boy (not ā€˜old chapā€™, which is what I call my erection), you could do these lads a solid. Thatā€™s right, SOLID. Just like when I slip it in.

So I went over, sat down with them, and found out they were a boyband from Korea - I knew they werenā€™t ā€˜localā€™ - I mean, Iā€™d do the ā€˜slitty-eyesā€™ movement here, but no doubt Iā€™d get cancelled for that. Now, usually I have no time for music like that - Iā€™ve been around that world a LOT, and know everything about it, and boybands and the people who like them are stupid. Theyā€™re stupid people. What I mean is, they (the people who like that music) are a lot less scientifically intelligent than me (Russell), because they are stupid and I am not. Very few people are as intelligent as me, of course, itā€™s just a measurable fact. Like the length of my penis, the one which wakes me up every morning and have to spank until it cries at me.

It seems they were unhappy with one of their members, and were looking to replace him. Well, I thought, from what they were saying, this J-Hope lad sounded like he was a stupid person, one of ā€˜The Stupidsā€™, as I call nearly everyone. And as it happened, I thought I could bring a special twist to these boys special blend of hip-hop, R&B and light rock, along with some obviously much-needed intelligence. I suggested this, and they all looked at each other enthusiastically, and instantly agreed. At this point I was very much needed to have a Number One (a prelude to the many Number Ones weā€™d all have together), and went to have one, holding my penis as I did so. Things were changing for olā€™Russ, I thought. All of this UX stuff Iā€™m so amazingly good at was about to stand for Unbelievable luXury!

But when I got back to the table, theyā€™d all gone. It must have been too much for them as a concept, and I later found out theyā€™d patched it up with the other bloke and gone on to unbelievable success. But, and I like to duck ladies, for a moment I was the seventh member of BTS. As it turned out, I think all that travel and money and youthful groupies and success and youthful groupies and sex and youthful groupies would have been a bit much, so Iā€™m glad it didnā€™t happen.

Or do I cry myself to sleep over it every night? Relentlessly. OH WHO CAN TELL! Not me. Iā€™m just over here, designing some UX. As you do.

My penis.
Uncanny
 
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He is definitely the sort of man who smugly tells women he's trying to date (probably too early in the initial conversations) that he enjoys giving oral sex but turns out not to be very good at all.
In my experience men who talk about it so much just really enjoy the idea of being the local Cunnilingus King. More so that the deed itself.
 
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