Upon returning from an exotic Indian meal and beverages with my esteemed friends, I decided that a post curry tug was just what I needed. There are many examples of man fighting the natural laws of this world: the Wright brothersâ first flight, the âcomedyâ of Jim Davidson and midgets with girlfriends. They pale, however, before the sight of RTFQ sat before his TV with his fave porn flick waah-waahing away, battling at 2 am to generate wood after a dozen Stellas and a pint of tequila. The problem of âstiffy-attainmentâ is rarely insurmountable, even if the more pre-eminent medical journals declare it impossible without a full blood transfusion and the application of 3500V, via defibrillator, directly to the left knacker. Oh No, I can get there, but the price is a right bicep that feels like Lisa Rileyâs sportâs bra and a bell-end that looks like Simon Weston. Worse is the fact that, after that much alcohol, my timingâs all to cock â at the all-important âPre Climaxâ moment the movie shot changes from the nubile nymphetteâs beautiful, expectant, heart shaped face awaiting a month-old-hotdog flavoured facial, to a shot of Jurgen Von Sweatytacheâs vinegar face. Because itâs taken so long for me to get to this point, my forehead is normally resting on the screen by now out of sheer exhaustion and Iâm panting like Jacko while he guest starts on CBBC favourite âDick nâ Dom in Da Bungalow.â This leaves me with a dilemma: as RTFQâs love magma races toward the point of no return, do I shove on the ABS and employ the Spanish Inquisition-esque manoeuvre that Cosmo calls âThe Grip Techniqueâ (back to square one), or do I unleash the fury and risk gayness by osmosis? I normally just go with the flow and think of Connie Huq off Blue Peter. Either way, itâs a Herculean task that requires preparation and the right equipment. Which is why I was so annoyed when I reached for my preferred material on Tuesday night and found it missing from its case. Someone had the audacity to come into my room and steal my grot! I donât lock my door because frankly people should have enough fcuking respect to leave my room, and especially my porn, alone. If my anger had been a mass murderer, it would have been Timothy McVey. They clearly did not know who I was. It infuriated me further when I returned from work on Wednesday and it had been returned. Did they think I was a b1tch? That I wouldnât clock onto what they were doing? Were they mocking me? In a fit of righteous vengeance I went straight to the local villageâs DIY shop and bought some mousetraps and a glue gun. I wonât go into the detail of RTFQâs Grot-Thief Finger-Cnuterâ¢ because this is Arrse and not the Anarchistâs Cookbook. Needless to say that itâs quite difficult to get a Grot-Thiefâs finger into the Killing Area because everything is self contained in the case. I devised a plan using (as all the best plans do) some MDF off-cuts and Harry Blackers Nasty Tape, turned what looked like a half open porn video case around in itâs draw, so the open end faced away from the perpetrator, and relied on the fact that anyone stupid enough to steal my grot is not going to do 5m and 20m checks, let alone look for booby traps. I left the thing in place, and waited - all the while studying peoples fingers at meals and in the bar for signs of extensive bruising/compound fractures. Then the tragic, comic, vindictive breath of fate that blows RTFQâs Rubber Dinghy of Life oâer the Sea of Fcuk-Up played itâs part. My girlfriend came over to stay late last night. I went to work this morning, came back to my room at lunch and found my lass looking very strangely at me â like the way Jack Nicholsonâs wife looks at him in âThe Shiningâ when he pokes his head through the door and introduces himself as Johnny. She is sporting a big shiner on her right âself-pleasureâ finger. Sheâs too embarrassed to say she went rifling through my Dutch âOmaâ porn and Iâm trying to work out what to do with the info. What does Arrse recommend?