Ofcom’s periodic Broadcast Bulletins are the occasional source of much belly-laughing over here.

From the July edition, a heart-warming tale of a man unfairly represented as a homosexual when is, in fact, merely a wanker.

In response to Mr M’s complaint of unfair treatment Teletext accepted that the text message Mr M sent to the Service read:

“This page is rubbish ave been after bi girls 4 weeks + got nothing cud av flown 2 amsterdam wa the money ave spent.”

According to Teletext, this text message was considered inappropriate for broadcast and was therefore rejected. Teletext said that, in accordance with the terms and conditions of the Service, Mr M was informed of this and charged for the text message and that in response Mr M then texted the following message:

“Eye but u still charged me 4 it u minimum wage loser go + fuck yer self ya fuckin muppet.”

Teletext acknowledged that the text message which was broadcast was as follows:

“GOODCHOICE – I love this page. Thanks for keeping me entertained! Gay guys, text me now. mwah! (103646)”

Teletext said it believed that it was most likely that the text message complained of had been sent to air deliberately…

Classy stuff.

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Awesome. Thanks Google.

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Oh, thank Christ for that. She’s the one wearing the T-shirt. I thought she was singing about her feller or something.

The last couple of weeks, that godawful irritating song has been hard to avoid.

I didn’t listen too closely to the lyrics.

It seemed perfectly natural to assume that “with nothing but your T-shirt on” referred to whoever it is who owns the T-shirt. Presumably, her bloke.

I don’t want to explain in detail the quite disturbing pictures this put in my head.

What’s wrong with this person? I wondered. Is this also the kind of woman who likes a man to wear his socks while he’s doing her?

But it’s okay. In a fit of curiosity I just looked up the lyrics on the interwebs, and it turns out that she’s wearing his T-shirt.

Not only that, but she’s smoking hot.

But the song, for me, as a masturbatory aid, is ruined forever, I’m afraid.

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Prince Charles has become embroiled in a “race row” after it emerged he calls one of his Asian friends by the nickname “Sooty”.

I imagine this is one of these “stories” that newspapermen have known about for years, but are only dusting off now because there’s a new public interest angle, what with the young Wales boy calling his mate a “Paki” the other day.

Newspapermen have whole files of stories like this. Charles has fallen victim to one before: 2003′s sex scandal.

But its seems an awful lot of people are jumping to conclusions on this occasion.

What’s more likely, he calls his mate Sooty because he’s a racist? Or because he regularly sticks his hand up his bottom?

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I finally got round to installing WordPress Stats on this blog.

Due to the search referrer stats, I now have an unprecedented insight into my readership.

You’re all a bunch of filthy bastards.

This is what people were searching for yesterday:

ao nang prostitues
gay sex blogs
the joy of gay sex
girls scream aloud
listen to innkeeper do you have room
rial reap sex
pool.com scam
dogporn
motorbike blog
i’m a single mother and a full time stud
xxxtreem videos
(siem reap cambodia) (boys prostitution)
paypal encrypts
send me a real free laptop no money down
naked om beach
siem reap bar girls
hippie girl anklet barefoot nude
“humourous blogs”

I love the fact that that last one has ironic quote marks around it.

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A monstrous winged beastie flew into my hotel room, hitting me in the face while I was closing the curtains.

Four inches long. A fat, noisy, indecipherable black mess of legs, wings, antennae and carapace. It made a sound like a baby screaming.

No fucking idea what it was. Didn’t get a chance to take a look before I bolted for the corridor.

When I ventured back inside, I could hear it had found its way into the bathroom, where the light was on. I shut it in there without looking, and sat on the bed to catch my breath.

It was a big sucker. When it flew against the tiles, it made a sound like a spoon, hitting a bottle.

It was about 9pm. I went for dinner. Got back at midnight.

It was still in the bathroom, clattering around knocking stuff over, making its godawful noises.

I really needed a piss.

I also really needed some sleep, but I didn’t like the idea of that thing finding its way back into the bedroom, through the crack above the bathroom door, while I slept.

So I did what any Man of Action would do:

Got the fuck out of there. Checked into a second guesthouse for the night. Hoped the thing would be dead by morning.

Nice-enough rooms in Vang Vieng cost $4 a night. Renting two at once was totally worth it.

The night porter, tiny wrinkled dude of about 70 years, wanted to know why I was checking in at midnight, without any luggage, giving my passport number at 12345678.

I told him I’d had a fight with my girlfriend. She’d kicked me out.

He bought it. Shrugged. Tried to sell me a big bag of weed.

The new room is much nicer. The bed is softer, and the duvet is pink, covered in pictures of cartoon puppies. The bathroom has a small plastic bin for my tampons.

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I needed a haircut. I was beginning to look like a hippy.

But yesterday marked the official end of the high season. All the barbers on Varkala cliff, along with the staff of about half of the stores and cafes, have buggered off home to hibernate, live off the stored fat of their squirrelled tourist rupees until November.

I had to go into Varkala proper, get my mop chopped by a guy whose expertise has been shaped by years of shaving around enormous moustaches.

Everybody warned me against it.

“Don’t do it,” they said. “He’ll fuck it up.”

I went anyway.

I come away with a shit haircut, I’ll buy a hat. At least I’ll have an amusing story to tell you lot.

But he did an decent job. And it cost a measly buck twenty-five.

About half way through the procedure, a pretty little girl, a toddler of about three or four, stumbled into the barbershop, grinning at me, as kids do.

I smiled back.

“Your daughter?” I asked the barber.

He did that infuriating Indian bobblehead gesture, the noncommital shoulder-to-shoulder nod that could essentially mean fucking anything.

“My son,” he said.

Doubletake.

This kid was wearing a dress.

Not in the sense that Keralan men wear lungis, which are skirts only as far as Scotch kilts are skirts. The kid was wearing a little girl’s pretty dress, with flowers and stuff on it.

He also had an earring, and a bow in his hair.

This bothered me.

A few weeks back, in Gokarna, a bunch of us had a drunken argument about homosexuality and gender identity in India.

It’s common knowledge among tourists that some ostensibly straight Indian men fuck each other, because unmarried vaginas are comparatively aloof and unavailable.

Of course, it’s only common knowledge because it’s in the Lonely Planet. Nobody I’ve met has had the cojones to walk up to an Indian guy and say: “So… you bum your mates for fun?”

If more Indian guys knew that we know this, I doubt so many of them would hold hands on the beach.

There was a 19-year-old Canadian guy with us. Slight, pretty, soft-spoken, with shoulder-length curly blond hair. But very straight.

He was desperately trying to grow a goatee.

“Indian dudes keep hitting on me,” he said, frowning and scratching at his scrawny, ineffectual bumfluff. “I think they think I’m a chick.”

Perhaps.

“It can’t help matters that they dress their little boys like little girls until the age of five,” added one of the Aussies.

A few odd looks from others at the table.

“Surely those are just little girls with short hair,” I said, to murmurs of agreement.

I knew what he was talking about. I had wondered, too, to be honest.

But, you know, Occam’s razor and all that.

Now, I’m not so sure.

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After a few days here in Mumbai, I was becoming increasingly startled by the quite massive number of gay men I saw on the streets. Really openly gay, too.

Every couple of blocks I’d see a male-male couple walking holding hands or with their arms around each other.

I know Mumbai is a pretty liberal city, but being gay is technically illegal here. You don’t see that amount of hand-holding even in San Francisco. Not even in the Castro.

It was only when I clocked a couple of Muslim guys holding hands on their way back from prayers that the true horror of the situation hit me.

These guys are all straight!

It’s considered acceptable for straight male friends to walk down the street hand-in-hand!

I came over all queasy when I worked it out.

Sweet Jesus, it’s worse than bumming.

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This admittedly is pretty gay, although only in the juvenile “your gay” sense, rather than the penis-related sense.

I’ve added Richard Dawkins’ scarlet A to my sidebar.

It’s to show support for his OUT Campaign, which I believe aims to help persuade closeted atheists in America that it is not they who are the crazy ones.

And why the hell not? While I feel a certain amount of embarrassment for nailing my colors to the mast on an issue, such as this, that ought to be irrelevant, it’s not like I’m going to be shunned by my community for doing so.

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(Corrects throughout and adds paragraph 5 to make clear Marine was not gay)

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