From Top to Bottom

NECKS. They appear to be in short supply round these parts. Funny that. At the other end of the social privileges scale they got a chin shortage. Yet there is more to this than meets the eye.

The neckless wonder, it seems, is not born in this sorry state. Rather, it would appear to be a condition which tragically develops at the same time as its victim's mental faculties don't. The male of the species would seem to be disproportionately cursed with this embarrassing malady, although female specimens are far from rare.

The effects of diminished thoracic vertebrae are pitiable to behold. Those afflicted can not pivot their heads with the wanton ease so many of us take for granted to see what lies to either side of them. They can only look straight ahead, any glance to left or right involving a heaving of the entire body mass in the desired direction. Any aspirations towards a career in the corps de ballet are instantly dashed, reading a book is virtually impossible without serious discomfort, nor is there anywhere for those of the afflicted to position a tie, should a wedding or a funeral compel them to wear a shirt.

Perhaps most tragically, the debilitating effects of this condition are clearly evidenced by the extreme difficulty experienced by sufferers in attempting the simple one foot in front of the other technique we know as walking. Their shortened gullet means they can only eat soft and mushy food, facing a tedious lifetime of eating nothing but fish fingers, chips, burgers and virtually liquid curries.

Sadly, but I think understandably, many are driven to drink. Others are driven to owning repulsively ugly neckless dogs, doubtless to draw attention away from their own deformity.

give 'm 'eadbutt

But nature is a wonderful thing, compensating as it does for its cruel jokes in one way or another. Sufferers from necklessness have managed to turn this disturbing malady into an advantage. For a start, there is no danger of having to take in information from different sides: a process which, on whatever level one cares to take it, would constitute a marked social disadvantage within their peer group.

Secondly, the quaint custom known colloquially as headbutting is greatly assisted by the possession of a rigidly fixed head. Thirdly, the vital art of watching the footer on the telly is greatly simplified by the impossibility of looking away from the screen without moving the entire body. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, it helps them dance the two step at the ska clubs so beloved of their number.

My curiosity aroused by the existence of an unsung social ill, I felt it my duty as a committed journalist to research the extent of this condition and indeed the approximate age of its onset. I have examined the occupants of locally pushed prams, peered with unconcealed curiosity at the upper rear view of toddlers, stared intently at the distance betwixt collar and hairline of schoolboys.

My fearless researcher was sent out with clipboard and tape measure with instructions to take measurements of schoolboys' neck lengths, but the incompetent layabout hasn't even bothered to report back to me yet. His utter selfishness and lack of gratitude aside, I have nonetheless managed to come to the following conclusion: necklessness develops with the onset of puberty, therefore probably having something to do with testosterone. Or, if I may advance a slightly more controversial theory, wanking.

wanking

Yes, wanking. These are, after all, the sort of people who indulge in that bewildering, not to say pathetic sport known as Biscuit. You know. Ring of lads. Biscuit in middle. Ready, steady, take aim, raz raz raz! Last to finish eats the biscuit. About as useful an exercise in developing the skills necessary to full erotic expression as a Bombay duck up the nasal passage is to selecting a parfum de toilette.

But anyway, the rigid posture adopted by participants would, I am informed by a man in the dirty beige raincoat, appear to be typical of wankers everywhere and strongly implicated in the increased rigidity and diminishment of the thoracic vertebrae.

Consequently I have taken it upon myself to form a new charity. Necks In Need, or NIN, will wage a two-pronged attack on the horrors of necklessness: preventative and remedial. When the doctors say he can leave hospital, my researcher shall be travelling to local schools, community centres and youth clubs to promote the health benefits of masturbation lessons for adolescents.

A video shall be produced along with a simple 'how-to' guide, printed conveniently on tissue paper for reasons I'd rather not go into. An information pack for tutors, "Wanking For Health," is being put together with the help of my man in the dirty beige raincoat even as I write.

For those who are beyond help, corrective surgery will be made available. But this programme of social reform can not go ahead without your help. Donations please to the Hot Press address, cash only.

a fistful of intestines

It's difficult to know how to break this next snippet of consumer information to you. The subject I propose mentioning does not lend itself to delicacy. Not that that has ever stopped me.

Dildos. Enormous great black rubber dildos. Or rather, a new variety of, erm, love aid which I espied on one of my routine visits to the sex shops of Soho (for purely philanthropic, sociological reasons, you understand). Living as I do in this contemporary Sodom and Gomorra (chance'd be a fine thing) I have grown somewhat blasé to the plethora of devices alleged to enhance ones intimate moments. The funniest shops by far are those targeted at the burgeoning gay population, mostly because the dildos reach mind-boggling proportions and in elaborate detail at that.

Yet even my jaded eyes had cause to water during a passing browse of the Clone Zone in Earls Court. The source of my alarm? I'll put it like this. Formed of skin-tone latex, the sight which befell my hapless eyes was what I at first took to be a prosthetic fore-arm. complete with clenched fist.

A brief pause to mull over the erotic possibilities of artificial limbs left me unconvinced that this particular division of pleasure was of sufficient popularity to warrant their presence in this particular shop.

Then I thought maybe it's for short people who want to go on protest marches but get pissed off with their titchy arms not showing in the crowd. Or could the object of curiosity perhaps be some form of novelty back-scratcher?

Then it sunk in. You will doubtless have heard of the practice known as fist fucking, particularly if you were convent educated. This is where gentlemen (and occasionally strange ladies) put their arm up each other's bottoms. No doubt connected with some perverse rural fantasy involving James Herriot.

Well, be that as it may, some bright spark has come up with a dildo specially for fist fucking. How innovative of them. This means you can now try out this interesting variant on the art of love solo to find out if you like it or not before popping the question to a friend.

I knew I'd get to the bottom of it eventually.