Hello! Is It Me You’re Looking For?

Apparently not, but that doesn’t appear to stop countless Google Gullivers, cast adrift on the sea on uncertainty that is the internet, persisting on washing up on the sandy shores of my blog, desperately seeking that one thing beyond their mortal reach – Lazy town porn.

Yes, as a responsible cyber-clogger, I periodically like to check up on the calibre of person perusing my pages and, indeed, what it was that led them to me in the first place. Fortunately, thanks to the analytics offered by mein hosts, I can do just that, seeing what country they hail from and the precise phrase they tapped into Google (with just the one hand looking at the results) that pointed them at me. Unfortunately, the reality of that is not so great.

I think it’s fair to say that, looking at the evidence, by and large, I can draw the conclusion that a particular type of ‘person’ ends up here quite a lot. And in case you were wondering just who you might be sharing this very sentence with right now, below is a selection from seven days’ worth of search terms exactly as they were typed in.

Naturally, where I can I’ve tried to help… or at least try and understand…

Amish Tits
As far as I know, these are salty cured meat knuckles sold by the side of the road in Pennsylvania.

The search for Amish Tits unearths a typical sampler depicting some Amish types and, of course, Lara Croft Tomb Raider and her unfeasibly large chest.

Sex in a luxury Jacuzzi
I like the inclusion of the word ‘luxury’ – it suggests that this fastidious pervert won’t have sex with strangers in just any old cheap Jacuzzi. My kind of bloke.

Hobgoblin Cake
Progressive rock group from the 70s whose greatest hit was a four hour epic on ice based on the very least popular of J.R.R. Tolkien’s books, The Annual Accounts of Mordor.

Fat bloke in Jacuzzi
Probably the same bloke from before checking how well he’d be received in said hot tub sexy time.

Sewer overflow cartoon
Because eventually the kids grow out of Disney.

Caravan sex
Disappointed fat man formerly thinking of Jacuzzi jizing now clearly lowering his sights.

2000 anorexic models
Make one ‘to scale’ model? For those days when 1999 anorexic models just can’t get it up.

Amish and where all the hoes at
He may not have mastered the workings of the search engine, but he knows what he wants well enough.

Cracked canoe beer bottle
My Native American name.

Dick ellershaw and ebay
The legal lap dog of the famous-name-portable-convenience manufacturer (see here) and eBay. Selling second-hand shitters?

Cock slag
One from my teen audience there.

Models gone anorexic
Ah, Russell Brand, welcome to my blog!

Jacuzzi orgasm
After crushing rejection the fat bloke’s given up on the idea of sex in a luxury Jacuzzi and is now happy to settle for a bit of self-service in a public spa.

Captain America golf cart float ideas
Yep. I’ve some of them.

Mexicans. Doing typically Mexican things.

Things that Mexicans do
Although stereotypically labelled a lazy race, you’d imagine there would be many other sites citing the activities of Mexicans that appear before mine. Apparently you’d be wrong.

Laugh mannequin
A non-sex sex doll for the man who just wants someone to find him funny? Is that you James Cordon? And have you been trying to cop off in a Jacuzzi?

cartoon the journey of a cheese sandwich through your digestive system
Wait, this sounds like me. I’m sure I followed it up with charcoal relief of a tin of Spam on a busman’s holiday up the rectum, too.

lazy town porn call the cops
Becomes self-aware at 02:14 am Eastern Time… half way through a tawdry tug over a kids’ TV programme.

pooh fucking piglet
Oh Jesus, what’s wrong with you people?

unfeeling robot
What he really wanted to Google was ‘wife’.

The robot wished it was unfeeling; but it felt everything he did to it….

fit pikey girls
Define ‘fit’, Mr Gadd…

glory hole wall of cocks porn
It’s important to cover as many bases as you can when conducting your search to ensure satisfaction.

Pritchard Media Tour: Part One

It occurs to me that it’s been a while since I could be bothered to post anything, so to make up for this utter lack of blog faeces-giving, I thought I’d give an unprecedented insight into my world.

Like opening the doors on Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory but with less chocolate and willy wonking, you’ve won a Golden Ticket, a Golden Ticket that takes you on a journey, a journey behind the scenes here at the magical Pritchard Media Factory. Pritchy Witcha’s Media Factory, I guess … actually, no, forget that, it sounds rubbish.

Some call it the TARDIS, some my Fortress of Solitude, to others it’s the Palace of Glittering Delights, to Josef Fritzl it’s too easy to escape, but to me it’s that place where I spend no less than 26 hours a day, sweating over a hot keyboard and milking out word-strings of varying degrees of interest from the very teat of fact.

But enough from me, go now with my two Essex Ooompa Loompas here and marvel in open-mouthed wonderment as you head behind the scenes at the most successful freelance writing/editing company ever in this house…

The Console

The very heart of the creative dream machine, from here ideas are formed, works of wordy art written and flogged off like cheap hookers or unwanted children, and porn is observed.

Let’s look around:

A) The Swear Box. Far too small to account for even an hour’s casual cursing, the Swear Box is now only called into use for the really bad words that I emit when I catch sight of stories about the Daily Mail, any TV talent show with ‘Britain’ in the title, the abortionate issue of such programmes, people who are too short, people who are too tall, fuckers with faces, swear boxes and, of course, blogs.

B) Pipe. For pondering purposes and, in the event of video conferencing, making a point.

C) Phurba. Tibetan Buddhist ritual knife. For reasons I find difficult to explain here.

D) WWII German Stick Grenade. Family heirloom from the period my grandfather dabbled with fighting for the other side.

E) Rear-view mirror. Even locked in your own impregnable office you can’t be too sure there’s not some whey faced goon, teen hoodie, Raffles-alike or evil clown behind you.

F) Sugar-based sustenance. Mostly Jelly Babies.

G) Magnifying glass. Used in the study of unidentified things found attached to either the furniture and fittings or myself.

H) Walther PPK/S. In the event of items seen in E) becoming tangible.

The Observation Platform

Through the reinforced shutters lies the white light of death from the moment nuclear Armageddon came to Colchester, frozen in time for me to gaze upon solemnly, mourning the loss of flavoured milk. This is the area in which I concentrate most of my looking, occasionally I flick channels to check on the state of the locals. It’s not looking good for them.

Let’s look around:

A) The Black Box. Beyond the Sheffield tones of my Artificial Intelligence virtual assistant, JARVIS Cocker, this is the only source of my aural inspiration. Except when Steve ‘Alan Partridge’ Lamack is on, or the empty headed drone of Nemone is covering for someone, then I put my headphones on and listen to something else until they go away.

B) Loose change. Conveniently bagged so that I can hurl the whole sack at passers-by instead of individual coins, thus saving time and effort.

C) Digital camera binoculars. Because neighbours need to be watched.

D) Discombobulating Oscillator. All in the name, really.

The Archives

A) Robert. So named not because of Robert Plant, that’s just one of those freakish coincidences. There to remind me that, in Britain, you are never more than a metre away from the terrors of nature. Also there to provide oxygen in the event of a full system lock-down.

B) Dictionary/Thesaurus. Because sometimes the internet is wrong.

C) Suspended globe. Because sometimes Wikipedia is wrong.

D) Randomly acquired figures of a selection of gods (yes, and a terracotta warrior) so that I can hedge my bets with that whole afterlife thingie.

E) Guitars. A complex series of riffs are played to signal to the household that coffee/a sandwich/cigars/hard liquor is required to help work through a tricky article on, say, horse-highering technology.

Blimey, this hatchet-faced harridan came out of nowhere! Okay, the boys are off now to drink cheap cider and fumble with some local slappers down the park, so she’ll be continuing the tour tomorrow. It’s time I also went to the pub to catch up on news and beer, so wait here with this feast for the eyes until I get back. Go on, go with her. Just don’t touch her. Or let her touch you…