Right. I assured DozyBint I would pen this anecdote for the Naafi so being a good gentleman and all that Iâve got round to fulfilling my promiseâ¦ [hr] The abuse my arrse takes is phenomenal. Iâve followed through more times than I can count with eight fingers and I have a particularly fierce affliction in the form of chafing. The Badgers nickname comes from having an arrse ripped to shreds feeling like it had a family of Badgers living up there at one horribly sore period of my lifeâ¦ Seriously I kid you not - my buttcheeks were bleeding at one time with the fallout from a nasty damp hike. I tried everything. Vaseline, tight boxers, loose boxers and even walking in the buff. (Actually I made the last one up.) One day, however, I had a âbrainwaveâ. Compeed! Compeed. Two pads. Large. Butt-application for the use of. I cunningly stuck them to each side of my chasm for Exercise Green Malarkey. I was walking like a penguin for about half an hour until the beggars softened up and stopped pinching my hoop. [I almost got a new nickname of âCrabsâ from that but I suppressed it due to the way young females would look at me when a mate called out âhey Crabsâ from across the bar.] Anyway the Compeed softened up and surprisingly it worked and kept my arrse chafage-free for the whole fun-filled time crawling through ditches and getting utterly lost in the middle of Salisbury Plain. As one does. Hurrah thought I! The solution to my problem! Then I tried to get the little shiâites off. Oh. Bugger. I lay in the bath for about twenty minutes with an expression on my face like a young Chinese girl losing her anal virginity to a horse-hung porn star. I gradually peeled back the gluey thing. I now have eternal respect for every female who waxes. Never again will I call it the sport of tarts and bhatti boys. I finally got a pad off and then lay sobbing like a girl unable to face removing the other. Although I hate to admit it, I had to suppress full-blooded screams as the second patch broke loose, taking half my anal hair plus most of the skin with it. I lay back in the water, and heaved a great sigh of relief. I subtly pokeyed around in the Southern areas to check for blood loss but was horrified to find not a babyâs-bum smooth patch, but bits of flaking skin and blobs of glue clumped onto patches of hair that had survived the culling! I yanked one off and felt a pain similar to a 33000 volt electrode being applied to my starfish and causing a spasm of pain that ricocheted up my spine. This was not going to be simple. I thought about trying White Spirit but the thought of applying corrosive chemicals anywhere near my backside was enough to send my sphincter into an epileptic fit. I tried cutting the feckers off. I crouched over a mirror and admired the hundreds of bead-sized globules hanging onto hairs like Shelob dangling from a stalactite. I tried to manoeuvre my penknife-scissors into a glue-decapitation position but the combination of being utterly knackered and the mirror effect only conspired to make me stab my hoop. I pity gay men. I had no other option. I had to pull âem off. For days afterwards I was seen in a pensive and thoughtful mood, wandering around with my hand firmly in my pants, only stopping to give a small yelp and an expression that was just calling out to be seen in slow-motion to enjoy the contortions my spasming facial muscles produced. I was left with a patchy bum-muff for a while which was, errm, well, interesting . It felt like the crack was permanently lubricated but the skin was so damaged it gave the sensation of smooth-slipping sandpaper. Never again.