Blogging The Dogging

Well now, I must admit this is a new one on me; not something I had ever heard of before and at this point in time I am undecided whether to feel embarrassingly demure and uneducated or fiercely proud and superior.

Anyhow, before we get that far, the whole conversation (with my daughter) started because her brother stayed here for a few nights a couple of weeks ago. We gave Andrew his little brother's room and by the end of the stay he obviously felt right at home, evidenced by the junk he left in and around the toyboxes and under the bed. Super grungy socks, a box of matches and a novelty condom, (new and unopened, I hasten to add, but white with a broad smile and a bulbous nose) were amongst the little surprises.

This reminded me of a more innocent time (many moons ago when all this was green fields and witches were still burned) when, aged eleven, I found a packet of condoms down the alley between the bus stop and our street. Not having the first clue what they were, I took them home, unwrapped and investigated one, and worked out it was perfectly shaped for popping onto the end of the poker and roasting in the fire. Believe me, this is the quickest and easiest way to make an entire three bedroom semi spend a solid week smelling like the remains of an encounter between an arsonist and a tyre factory. I learned quite a few things that day.

Back to the present, my daughter Alex queried whether the alleyway was at all scuzzy, as that's not how she remembered it, but more as an enchanted nook on the way to granny's house and cakes for tea and a big back garden and cuddles and praise and all the usual stuff that means you can smell and feel a day at nan's just in anticipation, when you are about five years old.

I remarked that all alleys are like that these days, if it's dark and secluded, some teenage couple will use it for the odd fumble, even here in bungalow and bunny rabbit land, in the seaside nonentity that spawned Walmington On Sea.

Here beginneth my education for today: Alex consoled me with the following "At least that's all you've got, we can't turn round for bloody doggers, here!"

Apparently the original version of the name 'dogger' was given to 1970s men in macs who 'dogged' their prey, looking for a kissing couple to spy on from a safe distance. What it refers to these days is anyone on either side of the equation, with or without car and involves couples actively going out to be spotted, cheered on or even assisted. They even have their own website.

I admit to a certain sadness that the name wasn't more recently created by some Chav who, whilst swearing undying love 'this week' to the gum chewing angel at his side, was simultaneously laughing with his mates that only dogs would do it. That would suit my sense of how the world is, as regards young men who ended up with a double dose of sperm at the expense of brain cells. I am sure theres a correlation.

The only swingers I have ever met (I know they were swingers because they announced it openly and early on, as if it were life membership to the local philatelists chapter,) were people who would probably need to be amongst the drunk and desperate just to be winked at, let alone to have someone encroach willingly on their personal space. Believe it or not, whilst media images give the rest of us inferiority complexes, there are some people out there whose egos know no bounds and are convinced they are sexy no matter what; belly touching knees, halitosis, comb-over........ and thats just the wimmin. The men seem to be sadly pizza faced way beyond puberty, or thin enough to snap.

Where my daughter lives (or perhaps it's the weather) the doggers seem to prefer doing it in cars. This at least means that if you approach the Sussex Downs with the intention of walking the (real) dog, you are not going to trip over anyone whilst throwing sticks etc and all you have to do is avoid car parks at dusk, especially ones with small crowds.

We discussed whether, if you put two vehicles with sun roofs side by side, it would be possible to perform a window-to-window spit roast, and whether that would pose a danger to cyclists looking for a thin parking spot. We wondered whether proper raincoats were essential wear and what it would feel like to be invited to join in, only to have your hosts change their minds after a proper look at you, as the shadows receded. We considered the effect of a bad fart in a small vehicle, mid coitus, and then we noticed how much the call was costing to her mobile, and, laughing ourselves silly, we went our separate ways.

I got the last laugh - I blogged it.