Porno-Pang Revelations Dangerous

...writes Pangolin’s Social Affairs Correspondent, Wilf Conks.

It's not Wilf Conks, obviously. I made that up. You can’t go using your real name with this sort of thing, can you? Anyway, you might imagine my distress on reading the filth just published on what, up until now, has been my favourite blog.

Pangolin has always been, for me, a rich source of intentionally meaningless drivel as opposed to the meaningful drivel put about by the Government. It seems now that this organ is going the way of all flesh, featuring as it has, carrots with willies. These images serve to confuse adolescent minds and indeed, several cases of young people involved in “veggie-shagging” have been brought to my notice.

Adolescents are strange alien creatures possessing a very high degree of suggestibility. Despite having access to centrally heated homes, they prefer to loll about in the freezing cold in ‘bus shelters drinking cider and spitting.

Unless the type of morally questionable material made available on Pangolin recently is removed, and never repeated, parents may soon find their sons and daughters shacked up with a turnip. Or worse, a sexually deviant cabbage. An immediate return to the sexual mores of old is needed and I offer my own, very typical experience as an example.

Many of my generation owe their controlled sexual awakenings to Country Dancing, an allegedly joyful activity once common throughout the land in the austere days after the Second World War. My primary school possessed a gramophone, several records, a relatively large assembly hall and the educative services of Miss Finch, a diminutive (except in Certain Areas) but enthusiastic Country Dancer. At least once a week, my class gathered together in the hall where Miss Finch unleashed upon us The Circassian Circle, or the awesome, nay terrifying, Long Eight, accompanied by insistent tunes which can best be described as “Diddley, diddley, diddle dee dee (rpt)”. Every session began with a solo demonstration from Miss Finch who, by dint of Nature’s Lottery, had a formidable chest. The Long Eight is still seared into my mind, involving as it did swift springing side-skips the length of the hall to a rising crescendo of Diddley-diddley diddle dee dee.

And back.

Gravity and momentum made this a terrifying sight for young children and I was not alone in suspecting that Miss Finch had concealed under her stylish Arran sweater a struggling black market piglet.

Of course, this was not the case, and it was only a sotto voce comment from Mr Hardcastle, the Deputy Head, known to all as “The Ferret”, and who always seemed to be passing down the hall during Miss Finch’s demonstrations which encouraged pennies to drop in my little mind. Mr Hardcastle went “Phwoarrrr” under his breath just as Miss Finch bore down upon him prior to executing a vigorous about face and bouncing away again.

Then a bell rang and we did Geography.

So perhaps I don’t blame The Pangolin for its recent moral descent. The fault lies in our education system and its lack of Country Dancing. A deep rooted fear of substantial female chests, Arran sweaters and The Archers theme have kept me free from the terrors of sexual deviance for many years.