What I did on my holidays

As you know, I returned to my roots: to the evil Hell-hole of my childhood town, King's Lynn. Here's the spire of St Nicholas' Chapel, by George Gilbert Scott if you please:

See how it was all brilliant sunshine there? Well, most of the time it was more like this - flat light, damp and grey:

Once again there was pack ice floating on the salt waters of the estuary of the River Great Ouse. The seagulls were using it as a sort of playground:

That shot, like the next couple, was taken from West Lynn, a small village on the bank of the river opposite King's Lynn.

The only real purpose of West Lynn is to act as a photographic viewpoint for King's Lynn.

Enough dullness, back to the sunshine - this is a shot of All Saints church, the original (12th century?) foundation being the oldest in Lynn, now mostly 14th century, and showing the typical Lynn "chequerboard" style of alternating flint and stone blocks:

But All Saints isn't a patch, architecturally speaking, on St Nicholas':

You're probably a bit bored with churches, so here's a vaguely homoerotic sculpture above the door of one of the town's banks:

And here's that most iconic of Lynn buildings, the Customs House, by local architect Henry Bell ("the most perfect vernacular building in England", according to Pevsner):

There are cute details in the town too, like this beast on a Victorian shopfront:

But the real drama comes with the town's main church, St Margaret's, whose massive double-towered frontage dominates the old town (this is one of the largest non-cathedral churches in England):

 

St Margaret was, I think, a Turkish woman who was swallowed by a dragon (what is it with Turkey and dragons? Think St George...). But using her cross she burst out of the dragon's mouth, killing it. I rather liked the light on this bollard, which features the town's symbol:

Here's more of that trademark flint chequerboarding, this time on the medieval Trinity Guildhall:

Lynn was made, of course, by the river: here, looking out to sea, the massing of the town on the east bank contrasts with the "where is it?" non-massing of West Lynn on the, er, other bank:

A few chainsaw-carved sculptures have been scattered around an area of park/wasteland alongside the river: I like this one, a fisherman holding a boat hull on his head, celebrating Lynn's whaling and fishing history:

I loved the colours in these shots:

And this rather spoils the pastoral idyll: Lynn's newest factory, the largest paper mill in Europe, apparently, just beyond the lowest crossings of the Ouse:

Here the River Nar flows into the Ouse, West Lynn church on the opposite bank:

Not far from that is this, the only remaining part of Whitefriars, a Carmelite Friary extant from roughly 1250 until the dissolution of the sixteenth century. Apparently England's first biography was written by a friar here. Know what it is?

No, I didn't either. Apparently it's The Book of Margery Kempe, by Friar Aleyn.

In the late Medieval period Lynn was very prosperous indeed and built new town walls enclosing a huge unbuilt area as well as the town itself -- to give it room to grow. That growth didn't happen (at least, not until the 19th century), and the walls were undefendable (as was proved in the Civil War). But the remains are pretty enough:

You're on the home stretch now. Here's one of Lynn's other famous monuments, the Red Mount Chapel, a strange, hexagonal shaped building, on the pilgrimage route to Walsingham, famously used by Parliamentarians as a stable in the Civil War:

This is the trackbed of the old Lynn-Hunstanton railway, celebrated by Betjeman in a delightful BBC film, now a path:

And the final, generic, shot, to emphasise again just how bloody cold Norfolk was (and still is):

Let's end it there, drawing a veil over the assorted relatives and people-related incidents which are, I am sure, of even less interest to you than this over-extended set of snaps. Now, back to the cock.

All is revealed

I'm back! And, to celebrate my return, a post consisting entirely of those lovely naked self-portraits:

No, not of me, silly. Mostly of lads beginning exuberantly to explore and broadcast their existence as sexual beings. Although not all of them are naked (and apologies that most of these images are much smaller than I would usually post):

But many of them are an excuse to show-off a larger-sized chopper:

Although occasionally (rarely) we get a rather nifty back view:

I think most naked exhibitionists have massive wangers (maybe that's why they are exhibitionists):

Although, to disprove my contention, here's someone with nothing particularly large to write home about:

And this guy is obviously fluffed (which, sadly, just serves to emphasise his own insecurities):

It's the natural look that most appeals to me:

Although I also, perversely, rather enjoy the semi-reveal (a bit of concealment usually fuels the imagination):

And, as always, I am a sucker for beauty:

But if there's one thing that pisses me off with these otherwise delightful boys, it's poor framing -- take this lovely boy who ruins everything by showing us far more of his bathroom than I care to see:

How much better if he'd done this, to enable us to focus on what we're really interested in:

Although, to finish, proof that you don't actually have to show very much at all to appear to be completely, wonderfully naked:

Yes, I think that charming chap clearly has the right idea. Although, on reflection, my vote is still with photo number 1...

Intrusion

I'm still away, but here's an update from the post-bot. Returning to the cold, dead bosom of my family (think Addams, but without the giggles), is a strange and hostile experience.

There is a constant barrage of probes from hardened and skillful interrogators. They all -- as we say in Norfolk -- "want to know the ins and outs of the cat's arse".

The lovely-looking chap at the centre of this sequence is experiencing something metaphorically akin to the grilling I will be undergoing several times a day over the course of my visit.

Although my relatives never show this degree of affection or desire -- merely prurient and insatiable curiosity.

And we never get to this level of excitement.

For which, come to think of it, I am actually rather grateful.

This is where I am

Just in case you're the sort of perverse cove who ignores posts saying "I'm off for a week" and you come back here early, all hopeful, here's a little something from the post-bot.

I'm there. Still.

That's right, I've gone to the evil Hell-hole of my childhood town, King's Lynn, in the wastelands of the Norfolk Fens.

Some people see images of the late Medieval buildings here and think it's quaint. But the reason so many old buildings have survived is because Lynn has stagnated for about two hundred years.

It's got a Medieval mindset, to match the buildings. And it's always bloody cold, of course.

But you know me: I'm not a complainer, I just get on with it. Honest.

Back in a few days. I hope.

Happy Christmas!

No, not from me, but from the post-bot which, I hope, has automatically posted this festive message on Christmas day.

I don't know who thinks that shoving Santa hats on porn models makes the resulting images festive, but I am grateful to them. Hope you're having fun.

With love from the Post-Bot

I'm orf

With impeccable timing, my favourite pornographer has provided us with a small selection of brand-new images which are, I think, a suitable Christmas gift to you (from him, obviously: I can claim no credit).

A strikingly handsome man who also has a sense of immense strength. I'm liking this model a lot.

I hope you do, too, because he's going to have to see you through the next week or so.

That's because I'm orf, to the wild flat wastelands of the Norfolk Fens, to brave the winds which howl down from the Arctic across the bleak expanse of the German Ocean, nothing to soften their vicious bite on their journey from the frozen North to their encounter with the delicate flesh of my face.

England, a temperate climate? Not necessarily in Norfolk -- earlier this year pack ice formed on the salt waters of the estuary of the River Great Ouse:

Luckily, my delicate flesh is nowhere near as perfect as this model's, so the damage will be that much less.

Er...

Anyway, I'm off. See you in a week or so.