Beating the Brentford blues

It was Blue Monday today. This is a day that PR people with the help of dubious scientific study have decided is the most depressing day of the year. And it hadn’t started particularly well for me.

For starters this morning I had to go to Brentford, that on its own would normally be enough of a reason to feel depressed, but compounding the feeling of doom was the fact that I faced what would almost certainly be a lengthy meeting. Additionally, I was running 20 minutes late, which would mean that I would arrive at the meeting and everyone would be waiting for me and so I wouldn’t be able to go for a pee for the next three hours.

So, having already been awake for well over three hours and having struggled across town standing on two packed commuter trains, I arrived at Brentford train station, late for my meeting and feeling the pain of life and bladder alike.

I tumbled out of the carriage and wandered off down the platform feeling sorry for myself, but then under my feet I saw it.

The Brentford blue is let down by some serious omissions. No pubes, no pisshole, no semen. The shaft is slightly wonky and the testicles misshapen and joined up. It’s by no means a well crafted cock. It’s ambitions leave much to be desired. But it is, at least, an honest cock without pretensions or airs and graces.

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