Ida T. Heurtze, an introduction.
I thought it would be a good idea to break my promise to talk about my own erotica in this blog, and write an introduction to Ida who approached me to publish her work, given that she lacks both the internet and confidence to do it herself. It would also help to clarify once and for all that we are not one and the same person, especially as Ida is a woman and I am not.
Ida T. Heurtze… Not to be confused with Ida A. Hertze who lives in the Everglades in Florida with her budgie called Cecil (Who she insists on calling Seesil, which is wrong on account of us being English, and therefore right!) and writes travel guides for alligators…
Ida T. Heurtze lives alone with her pet dog Dougal (who she says she has taught to lick… whatever that means…anybody?) and her goat Billy in a smallholding just outside Nark in Scotland, which is a little place full of angry men in skirts and Mel Gibson look-alikes some way north of Watford, which is a little village in England, which for our American friends is a place other than London which we invented to have somewhere for our trains to go.
Ida is celibate apart from the rare occasion that she has sex, and learned everything she knows about physical love from reading Mills and Boone and a man called Hamish McDuff from the Clan McDuff and her Aunt Edith who hated men and lived with a man called Mary.
She inherited her German sounding name from her father who was Scottish and also had a German name. How he came by it nobody knows but it can be certain it wasn’t in a card game because he was very bad at gambling and once lost his way in a bet with an Irishman who got there first.
I receive Ida’s hand written manuscripts in ten page batches neatly wrapped around a brick every Tuesday at 8:30pm, which co-incidentally is when old Bobby McDonald of the Clan McDonald stands outside my house with a bottle of whisky and shouts obscenities at me.
Bobby McDonald is also a Scottish lady like Ida T. Heurtze, although clearly unusual as Scottish ladies go for having a ginger beard, and used to walk around town topless until her nipple rings rusted and forced her to resign her seat in the Houses of Parliament on grounds of metal fatigue.
She came down to England riding a £5 note which he had especially tuned to avoid capture by the Scottish mounted police on their Lambretta scooters!
The highlight of her political career was a record breaking 78 hour political debate with he MP for Little Wallop held during a recess when the rest of parliament were away on holiday, during which she discovered the word willy and ended up being dragged out after breaking into a shouting match with a tour guide and his confused Chinese delegation coming to see London on their way to visit a little place called America they had just bought on the stock market.
Bobby’s Brother Sally had made and lost a fortune in Iceland, investing everything he had in mechanical pleasuring devices for the females of that parish when the economy took a nosedive and the women folk tightened their chastity belts until the men folk took their fingers out and sorted out the mess they’d made of it.
With a van full of worthless products bought at a premium from some bloke called Ann Summers on the internet, Sally, fuelled by alcohol and the desire to get away from it all, drove his van up a glacier and dumped the lot into a crevice. The resulting seismic event caused by 2538 high powered Deadly Donkey vibrators hitting the bottom and suddenly bursting into life caused a dormant volcano to suddenly spring into life and grind Europe’s airspace to a standstill.
The melted plastic mixed in with the ash cloud was deemed too dangerous for delicate jet engines, although the plastic content was hushed up by a scientific community who were convinced they’d be on for a certain Nobel Prize for discovering naturally occurring plastic from the eruption.
With the foreign visitors from the IMF who’d been there to lecture the Icelanders on the ill judged decisions leading to the collapse of their economy grounded, the locals had a brief boost in their economy providing guided tours of the volcano by boat at extortionate prices due to having a captive audience.
At this point I’d like to make clear that rumours I used a gagging order to silence the press from reporting an illicit affair with a fairground goldfish called Daphne are wholly groundless and I can prove beyond question that at the time the alleged incident took place I was in fact rescuing a goat from a mineshaft, which unbeknown to me had been chained to the railway sleeper I threw down said shaft to find out how deep it was. The sight of a distressed goat hurtling toward me in the twilight was quite distressing for me and probably for the goat too! My extensive efforts, over the next five minutes, to retrieve the animal came to nothing. However I maintain that my being there clearly refutes any possibility that I could have been simultaneously in a fairground near Cleethorpes serenading a goldfish called Daphne!
I shall continue typing up the manuscript delivered to me by Ida and ask you to keep following for news of books bearing her name.
Please could you help us identify who has been reading this blog by cutting and pasting the following Tweet…? You are a sick Twat! Your book is brilliant, can I buy a copy? …and send it to the Twitter account @NeilWinnington
…and then having proven that you are willing to blindly follow instructions given by an idiot, report to General Compton Smyth who is recruiting for a rapid response suicide squad to retake the town of Grimsby after reports came in to the Ministry Of Defense of a Viking hoard invading as recently as January 8th 1027!
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By Neil Winnington
A comedy novel in the Tom Sharpe mould, with a sleepy Devon Village facing a media frenzy as a combination of lies and incompetence leads to a media frenzy and the paperazzi descend on the unwitting locals...
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Ages Of Sin
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A collection of short erotic stories exploring the theme of age differences with bonus material and a few surprises.