pixelated Porn by Tom Fogarty

The Struggle is Real

My life fades. The vision dims. All that remains are memories. I remember a time of chaos, ruined dreams, this wasted land. But most of all, I remember the web developer, the man we called Tom. To understand who he was we have to go back to the other time, when the world was powered by the black fuel and the desert sprouted great cities of pipe and steel — gone now, swept away.

Those are not my words of course, that’s the intro to Mad Max 2 – albeit with the name “Max” replaced with “Tom” and “web developer” substituted for “road warrior”. Still, this seems highly accurate for this strange time we are living in now.

Like 49.2% of the UK’s population, I have been working from home for the past 8 weeks. Of the remainder (actually the majority) of the population, many have been furloughed – whereby the government is paying their usual wages on behalf of their employee whilst they stay at home having a knees up. It’s basically the same as getting unemployment benefit, only at a higher rate than usual dole-scroungers because they show more interest in life and work during untroubled times i.e when a virus isn’t running rampant across the globe.

That might be alright for some, but as far as I’m concerned that’s for schoolgirls. A job like mine puts hair on your chest and you have to soldier on, bravely striving forward with a touch of Dunkirk spirit (working from home). I am in the thick of it in Camberwell – a small borough in South London and the hardest-stricken borough of the capital no less – doing my bit for Queen and country; making and delivering websites during this bleak crisis. Had websites been a feature of our lives during WWII, I’m sure my job would have been considered vital work for the war effort – I’m sure you’ll agree.

Working from home hasn’t posed a major problem to me in all honesty, partly because of my robust strength of character and will to succeed and overcome any seemingly insurmountable problem that looms before me, and also because I’ve practically been living in lockdown since a teenager anyway; my phone is always the only one in the room that never rings, conspicuous only by its silence. The dustbin usually goes our more than me.

I go about my duty without complaint as I’ve never been one to moan; a web developer can do their job anywhere after all – providing they have a working computer and access to the internet from time to time. And after 2 months of living and working in lockdown things have gone smoothly. Until now…

Last Thursday out of the blue, my internet stopped working. On closer inspection I found that the problem stemmed from my home phone landline, through whose conduit my internet is provided. I won’t bore you with the technical details (for this you can thank me later), but my telephone provider use a third party solution for their engineers who would not be coming to fix the fault until the 22nd of May (3 weeks from now at the time of writing). I won’t name and shame the useless, unhelpful cunts, but my telephone provider are also the people who put letters through your postbox every day, and the third party engineers’ name rhymes with “Gropen Leech”.

Needless to say this poses a significant issue with regards to me performing my job whilst restricted to my homestead. And on an even more serious level, without the internet – I have no access to pornography.

Horror of all horrors, hell of all hells!

I can cope with social isolation and 30,000+ UK deaths, but not being able to view PornHub is simply not on. Things just got serious. This is critical, this an emergency. Code red.

What use is a web developer with no internet connection? And what is a wanker with no access to pornography?

Being the resourceful and practical individual that I am, I have cobbled together a solution whereby I can access the internet on my computer by tethering to the internet data on my phone via a mobile hotpot. So I’m back in business (sort of).

Then to further complicate the situation, I then received this SMS message from my mobile phone operator:

To improve your local network, we’re carrying out essential work in your area. While we do your signal might come and go.

Marvellous. So my mobile network might be buggered at any moment too.

Work have graciously offered to pay for the extra mobile data expenses I’m incurring, so although encumbered, I am diligently getting on with my job as best as I can. I am able to limp on regardless in the face of adversity, resolutely putting a brave face on it.

However, one rather mayor problem remains.

Whilst tethering to the internet on my phone, online nudity is still restricted by my mobile operator. And unless I want to call them up like Alan Partridge and meekly ask them to turn my porn back on, I will have to do without.

So whereas I just about have the facilities to work now, I do not yet possess sufficient material to wank.

With no access to online perviness to keep me titillated, I have regressed to a near teenage state; flicking between channels 4 and 5 late at night, hoping to catch a glimpse of some breasts. Things appear to have changed since the mid-90s, however, and both TV networks seem to have cleaned up their acts. Bastards.

How I wish that they would show repeats of Baywatch, or they’d screen Basic Instinct – the film in which Sharon Stone flashed her snatch and Jeanne Tripplehorn gets buggered (much like my phone network).

I live in constant hope that television weather girl, Lucy Verasamy will accidentally slip a nipple during a live broadcast, and whilst watching repeats of 60s Sci-Fi show Lost in Space, I ponder if young starlet Angela Cartwright ever appeared naked later in her career. Of course I have no way of finding out…

Fortunately, I have a Sam Fox nudie collage of page 3 cutouts stashed under my bed, together with a classic copy of Mayfair (a Tom Fog heirloom from my younger years). I also have Russ Meyer’s Super Vixens boxset to keep me going for now.

Still, spare a thought for me when you’re outside clapping for key workers and the NHS next Thursday. And maybe flash your tits in my direction while you’re out there…


Funny, London Life


This is a personal website and the views expressed here are my own (or stolen from other people down the pub). Facts may not be accurate, or could be poorly paraphrased gags borrowed from proper writers - or simply, outright lies.