Randomity

I am loving everything about this utterly delightful pair of images:

Though I'm particularly taken with the sun shining on the leg hairs:

While this next image is a gloriously witty homage to the famous Spiderman kiss:

Incidentally, how are you liking the experimental "once a week" posting that I'm currently doing? It's in response to many of you saying you don't want this blog to end, so would I mind carrying on but less frequently.

I have to say, it feels complete pants to me. I should either be posting often, or not at all. Currently I'm minded to go back to the several-times-on-most-days format, until this blog is full -- to go out in a brief blaze of glory rather than this interminable dribble.

Any views?

Heavenly

I am liking this chap a lot.

I mean, a lot.

His musculature is quite extraordinary... bouncy, almost.

But he also has a sort of mournful, soulful thing going on...

And amazing abs too, of course.

And a winkie that is perilously close to being a giant mutant:

Ah, but he overcomes all that by the open yet tentative nature of his posing...

Let's end here, with an extraordinary full frontal of that amazingly punchy body:

Almost statuesque. Really, quite amazingly beautiful. Lovely. Really, very lovely indeed. Oh yes.

Satire is not dead

As the political world explodes about us, how genius is this:



I particularly like the casting of Colin Firth. Genius.

This on a day when the following is, apparently, an ordinary revelation:

"Metropolitan police commissioner Sir Paul Stephenson and his wife accepted 20 nights on full board at luxury health spa Champneys as he was recuperating from hospital treatment earlier this year. Stephenson says he was unaware that the Champneys publicist was Neil Wallis, a former News of the World executive arrested last Thursday".

Do these people have no shame, let alone a basic functioning ethical framework? Who in their right mind, in his position, would accept a free 20 day full-board holiday in a luxury health spa, as a "gift"? He has to resign now, doesn't he?

The only way this scandal could get any worse is if it turns out a judge is involved. I can't think of any way for them to have stooped any lower.

Sir Paul Stephenson,
former Commissioner of Police of the Metropolis

(the most senior police officer in the UK).

PS: Ha! He's resigned. A few pithy comments from me and, within 5 hours, he's gone. That is the mighty power of Adventures in Beige!

Help me out here

You mystify me. I posted an exuberance of images of possibly the most beautiful man who has ever lived...

 And you don't say anything. Really? Is he not utterly fabulous...?

I feel like I'm losing my mind here. Come on, people! Tell me you love him or why I'm completely wrong. Please!

Nostalgifest

Some kind person has shared half a dozen wonderfully evocative photos taken at London's Liverpool Street station in the early 1980s.

The station was split in two by a pair of extra-long platforms that cut the concourse in half, leaving a narrow, winding path to connect the two sides of the station or, as is visible above, a network of high-level foot-bridges.

Once the busiest commuter station in London, it still had (and still has) an immense volume of commuter traffic.

But it was those that I remember most vividly -- a Class 37 about to depart with an InterCity service to King's Lynn via Cambridge. While this next shot conveys the atmosphere of the run-down concourse (so preferable to the sanitised shopping mall we have today):

This is what a railway station should look like -- all vaulted ceilings and expanses of platform...

Or here, where the youth waits idly for his train, a pair of Class 31s aligned beyond him, the smartly turned-out platform official about to give the Right Away signal:

Let's end here, at the far end of the line in 1980, the positively gleaming Class 31 having arrived at Lynn.

That smart rake of Mk2 carriages behind it provided the most comfortable ride ever experienced on this line, including today's dreadful plastic electric multiple units with their cramped and mean seats.

Is it me?

No-one should be in any doubt as to the sheer size of the admiration I have for naked models:

I love them, I adore them, and I am hugely, hugely grateful to them. All of them.

So, while I know this is a bit of a churlish thought...

... and while I love this model's body, his hairy deliciousness, and his very modest winky...

... does he really have to be quite so sullen?

I mean, if he really doesn't want to be there, aren't there easier ways to earn a living? Anything is hard if you don't enjoy it, no matter what you're paid, but most difficult jobs don't require you either to get an erection or to appear to be enjoying yourself.

He's really well qualified in the former, but I do wonder about his commitment to the latter.

Churchifications

By chance, two central London churches have recently had major interior refurbs, to restore them to their original glories. First up, the Roman Catholic church in Soho:

St Patrick's was first established in 1792, the first Roman Catholic church in England since the Reformation, but the present rather grand church on this site was built in the 1890s.

The interior is, now, extraordinarily shiny. It's actually wonderfully light. The floors have been paved in an extraordinarily lovely marble pattern.

Everywhere has been beautifully considered, including the angels guarding the entrance:

And the altar is topped by rather beautiful gold pannelling:

It's in stark contrast to our second church, a stone's throw away, St Martin in the Fields:

A century and a half older, St Martin's was designed by James Gibb in the 1720s and has become one of the most copied church designs in the world (it was exported to North America and built in bulk).

The interior here is stark English Protestantism, post-Baroque, all plain walled and whiteness with a bit of gilding here and there. And the modern interventions have been beautifully done -- I absolutely adore the main window over the altar:

The flat whiteness of the decor can conceal the richness of the design, unless you're prepared to really look:

Let's end here, with a delightful brass lamp which contains, if you look very carefully, a self-portrait...

Yeah, you're not going to get much detail from that, I'm afraid. Button up those prurient curiosities!

Yesterday...

A stash of ancient images. Well, they're from the late 1980s and early 1990s, anyway.

It was a kinder, gentler age, when men with normal-sized peepees could be porn stars, while images were blurry and difficult to make out.

... where the dominant style of porno photo was still derived from Classical Art traditions of ancient Greek warriors engaged in gymnastics or bizarre stretching postures...

Although, even at this early date, louche representations of callow youth lounging seductively about were also beginning to creep in...

But there was still something rather innocent and lovely about the whole business.

More Health & Efficiency than Fisting & Fucking Today.

Although, since magazines also seem to be disappearing, doubtless that comment is also evidence of prehistoric tendencies on my part, Damnit.

What an eyeful

The hours of my life that I spend searching for porn conducting vital research on the web have, I'm pleased to say, once again borne fruit:

Yes, it's from a photo site where this talented photographer and delightful exhibitionist has given us a bit of what we fancy:

Quite a lot of what we fancy, actually -- more than a comfortable mouthful, I'd say:

And he is not averse to a bit of self-pleasure for our pleasure, either:

Oftentimes he's to be found loitering naked on his bed:

But let's end with this dramatic sequence of four shots...

I don't know what they mean, although the air is pregnant with tension, giving us a good luck as his lush pubiary...

And then he bursts into action!:

... before just standing back, giving us an eyeful of his massively over-fluffed cock and his correspondingly tiny, shrivelled bollocks:

I am in love with him. I am his to command, in fact, notwithstanding the ludicrously prodigious size of his membrum virilis. Magnificent. I'm already on my knees, er, worshipping him.