Dooowah those summer days

Ahh my fellow woolly ones, tis a fine day.

The Sun is out, the birds are doing the chirping thing while dodging the traffic, the children are skipping joyfully from car to car keying them with lovely wavey patterns – and FB is pissed off.

I generally get this way on summer days because the moment the bright yellow bastard pokes his head round the near-eternal cloud cover of the Albion’s skies all the ladies decide to shed fifteen layers of clothing and become, erm, immodest.

This was worse when I was un-gainfully employed by the British Government as a student, mainly to keep their embarrassing unemployment figures hidden.

It was really unfair too because how was a fellow with time on his hands and a final exam the next morning suppose to do some pretend revision with nubile first years parked on the grass wearing approximations of clothing made out of dental floss. If the low-rider jeans were engaged then it was a case of statutory use of sunglasses to prevent loss of sight.

Now when I was a full beard it was even harder. I don’t know what it was , but there would always be one really really gorgeous young European girl who would come over to my leafleting spot and talk to me about what I was doing.

Was this crazy eurochicka trying to get a taste of the mad and bad world of the Kefiya cowboys? Was she enraptured by my mighty beard which made the white men of her native land look puny? It was hard to figure out in between trying to preserve one’s Din and doing a flag pole impressing under the Jilbab.

Eurochicka would asked deep and searching questions while gazing up very intently into the eyes.

Then my mind would be formulating these complex arguments. Weaving thread from the depths of Derrida, whacking a bit of Niel Postman, honing it all with some Chomsky and then I would want to round off with a Sayyid Qutb or Hasan Al Banna. Well, that was between thinking about taking this woman and converting the heck out of her in various ways to the ways of islam.

All this hormono-testostero-acitivy would naturally lead to the pinnacle of human eloquence which would be ultimate answer. “Yeah , erm , that’s a good question.”.

I swear I chewed through some of those leaflets to stop the wailing and gnashing ofteath.

So now I have abandoned the way of the beard and am looking for some sinful excitement to entertainment my gelatinous self. I find that all the young nubiles have descended on my life because its sunny.

There are girls in slinky tank tops, cut away dresses, low-riders with shiny G-strings that threaten to bring down a passing jumbo, t-shirts tight enough to qualify as corsets and muchly taken care of body parts for all the world and FreeBeard to see.

I hate summer.

XXX Hot Beard Action

FB has a conundrum. A long time ago, in the time of two bladed razors and shaving brushes, FB used to get real excited by the flash of flesh provided by the learned publications of the Paul Raymond. The thought of Sean Young, even Demi Moor ( yes yes we are putting the boat out here) revelaing an outline in the dark recesses of Channel 4 would have made the FB very happy.

Now the prospect of a Channel 5 "documentary" on people who happen to be famous and very nude has me reaching for the remote to find something historical read out by Simon Schama in the middle of a down pour.

It's not just that. I find the prospect of "non-stop xxx hot lesbian bungee jumping cork tying action" and suchlike on the internet mind numbingly dull. I even suspect that had I been on the set of Swordfish where Ms Berry gets her sunscreen down would have had me yelling "FFS put some clothes on , you'll catch your death!"

Even some of the more radical examples of nekid gymnastic I have seen (all in the line of duty as a IT technician cleaning up corporate machines ...honest....) don't have an effect. The brain kicks in with thoughts like isn't that a nice patio behind the blonde with her mouth full. Sometimes I have even had to dig out some books on mechanical physics and human biology to work out what the heck s going on.

And lets face it , even if I was a innercity , hoodie enable, drug addled pev, the prospect of thinking of Isaac Newton would be a real passion killer.

I really don't know what this means.

Maybe I'm getting old or in the latter instance heading towards becoming a pantomine queen - or even both. Howeve the Newton thing might disprove the Queen theory - we shall see.

How does this bode for the future? On my wedding night am I going to turn to the new wife and say "that's a really nice place for a tattoo, love, do me a favour and put the kettle on."? I hear that this is suppose to happen after a few years of marriage and also involve moving her out of the way of the TV because the Cup Final is on.

Who knows I haven't got there yet, but the omens are a bit foreboding.

I have tried to find an answer to this from the nigerian man who keeps trying to sell me viagra via my email but to no avail.

Beard must be stroked in contemplation....

Sex And The Single Beard

Now you see I used to think that the whole problem with finding a girl that would tickle my fuzz was a clear case of misunderstanding. I used to while away my teenage years while tickling my own fuzz thinking about the perfect Sharon Stone-esque amazon would be applyting the approriate level of tickle after a deep undertstanding of my soul, my motivations and my heart's desire. Let's face it despite the intellectual framing the hearts desire pretty much came down to Sharon sans her coulots.

As the years grew long, and the beard arose from my chin like the fresh sprouting of barley for some hero to stroke in a Ridley Scott film. I began to view the eventual tickling of said fuzz as the wholly spiritual union that would bring me closer to the ultimate truth of life and the universe and only a woman of purity would be able to do it.

Ofcourse, now I realise it's cos I am too damn ugly to get a shag.

We do have an appaling image as a bunch of frigid anti-sex mullahs in the old Sun newspaper doesn't reelly help. According to the new orthodoxy the muslim male would prolly explode in a white froth if touched by anything lithe and humanly female. There are supposed to be areas of Saudi where blunt instruments would be applied to the nether regions if venturing anywhere near the female half of humanity.

I won't be uncharitable and go on about the various South Asian stories about Emratis and their prediliction for nubile boys. Some say that in oil rich regions Michael Jackson is truly King.

Moving switfly on before the impending Fatwa from Yusuf Qardawi on Al-Jazeera.

I have a point for all those western swinging , free loving, drug smoking, liberal media - muslims not having sex in a rampant manner is historically inacurate. When it comes to humping , Muslims make camels look like beginners.

Example - SPAIN. Before the muslim armies got over there the Visigoths ruled the place and were blonde haired and blue eyed. After 800 years - nada.

Wonder how that happened? Wall to wall shariahtastic rumpy pumpy - thats how. They built the Alhambra , did poetry and each other by the looks of it.

So get off the old sterotype folks.

Anyway - this doesn't help the beard getting the fuzz tickled.

Now being male, muslim or otherwise , the self tickling thing has got boring. So now I'm on a quest to get it down.

As a result I have rejected the former fold of the full beard and downgraded to a goatie for medium level sinning. Now i know my former full bearded gents would disagree with my choice and I can see their moral and legal point of view. No doubt there are some huge bellows that are stoking large coals for the lower fuzz.......

But dudes, I neeeds the fuzz to be tickled and thats an urge I can no longer fight......

I am BEARDED FEAR ME!!!

Howzer folks, this FB is going glo-blah on the world wide web. My mission, should my other personalities chose to accept it, is just be free the Beard.


For too long now, the beard has been held prisoner by those who intend to use it for ill-purpose.

I used to be one of those opressing the beard. I used to be one of those guys wanting to put all women behind a viel and wear short trousers.

I tell you now its one hell of way to feel guilty about looking at some some fine woman-age.

Now I keep the beard of of remorse, shame and cos the chick love it. It's just rest of my flabby self they have a problem with. No doubt some serious gym session will sort that out.

Shout out to my mate Directhex for helping me out with the webpage , even though he hates my FreeBeardedness, he's like the voltaire of beards. Hates my beard but love my right to flaunt it.

Stay Wooolly.
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