KISS ME QUICK SHIT FACE.

Yes, I know that sounds vulgar, but there is no other way to describe the foundations of this piece because that is what it is all about, faeces, which is a posh word for crap. What we are addressing here is the uses to which the said substance is put, and not on the garden, it also addresses the extremes to which female vanity will go in pursuit of sexual allure, although with all this me too bollocks on the rampage one is forced ask why they bother in the first place, give a bloke the come hither, and when the poor sap responds in the time honoured fashion, accuse him of rape. Modern life ain’t half strange and getting stranger, after all what is the point of tarting oneself up if a man is debarred from sampling the goods? Daft does not even begin to describe this situation, but then when did reason ever enter the realms of sex. There, now I have said it, pricked the bubble of this discussion so to speak, and from here on in all will go with a bang.

What you may ask has the faecal substance got to do with a bit of hankey pankey? Everything in fact, it is the fons at origo of sexual attraction. I am not for one Minuit suggesting that having a crap on a dull day turns one into a rampant lothario, but it is a by product of those urges. Why do women wear make up? To make themselves attractive to a prospective mate, or, if you prefer, to facilitate a quickie behind the local Odeon if time is of the essence and connubial bliss is too much of a gamble. OK so they put on the slap and take off their knickers before sallying forth for the kill, nothing new there Now we get to the nub of the matter, cosmetics, what is in them? That’s right dear ones, shit. The word is often used loosely and out of context, such as, “That tofu and quinoa salad from Waitrose was a load of shite” not that shoppers at the said store would use such coarse language, but you get the gist of things. I will keep you in suspense no longer, you may think cosmetics are a load of crap, and you would be perfectly justified to do so, because that is exactly what they contain, shit.

This is not fake news, I am not taking the wee wee by recklessly talking crap, this is pure fact, heaven forefend that I would dump on the sensibilities of my readership, it is beyond dispute that when you buy some face cream you do not get a fly in the ointment, but it does come with a turd in the pot. There, I have said it, and I rest my reputation on the veracity of what I have wrote. It is the Gospel truth.

At this point in my narrative it is necessary to exercise a little caution. I do not for one moment infer that posh dives like Harrods flog adulterated slap to their august clientele, for while such people might talk nothing but shite they would undoubtedly draw the line at plastering the stuff on their faces, faeces for faces would not go down too well in the drawing rooms of Knightsbridge. Nor I imagine would the manager of Harrods be too keen on being told to scour the streets with a bucket and shovel, scooping up tomorrow’s special offer. No, all this happens at the common end of the supply chain.

So, where would one go to obtain a supply of this wondrous product? Your local market, where the stalls are loaded with crap and nobody expects anything better, which is just as well as they would be unlikely to get it, although the market trader will give you a smile and assure you that it will make you look ten years younger, omitting to inform you that you will smell like an outside lav.

At this point we must consider the lads, there he is, gazing with rampant lust at the object of his desires before planting a good old fashioned smacker on her lips, nibbling frantically at her face while anticipating the glories to come. Poor sap, if he had known what she had been plastering her face with he would either turn queer or promptly join a monastery.

There is nothing new under the Sun, all what I have said has gone before. Take that ultimate siren, Cleopatra. In the ancient world a manuscript was published cataloguing the ladies beauty secrets, she should have kept them to herself. Recommended as a hair tonic was mouse crap. Well. If old Cleo was rubbing mouse shit into her barnet then it was no wonder Marc Antony gave her the bums rush.