The Trash Whore Diaries (2001-2011): Ten Year Anniversary Special by Bob

Under the watchful eye of the CCTV camera I fucked her up the arse over an empty beer barrel.

It’s not easy being a crack whore. Your work buys your drugs, your drugs are your sex and your sex is your work. When you come to think of it, you'd need to be banging bigger rocks than Charlie Sheen (that’s eight-gram rocks) just to differentiate between the times when you’re fucking, getting fucked, being fucked or just having your shit being totally fucked the fuck up.

Being a trash whore blogger isn’t much easier of course. You may enjoy the notoriety and all the unsolicited blowjobs it brings, but the confessional nature of the job means you’re constantly putting yourself at risk. At risk from girlfriends, their boyfriends too, from the boys in blue, and at the mercy of any potential employer who has ever heard of a little thing called ‘Google’.

‘Well maybe you shouldn’t be so stupid as to put potentially damaging details about your life on the internet!’ I hear you say. But let he who is without Facebook cast the first stone. 

In many ways the Trash Whore Diaries were the precursor to Facebook, except funnier, and much less agreeable to the financial survival of its creator. Just think how different ‘The Social Network’ could have looked if only TWD had been the first to strike upon the idea of letting dirties put up pictures of themselves in their underwear, and then letting other dirties look at the pictures of the dirties in their underwear.

Sadly, it was an idea that was too simple by far. You’re on the internet, and you’re on the internet to perv on dirties - so why would you need a place on the internet just to do what the internet does? 

Unlike Mark Zuckerberg, this blog has never taken to patronising its sagacious [suh-geh-shuhs – having or showing acute mental discernment; shrewd] readership by inviting to do for them what they could already bloody well do for themselves. This blog has always been about the things you shouldn’t do, or wouldn’t do, or used to do a little bit but kind of grew out of. It’s about things that are oh so wrong, but feel oh so right. It’s about places you’d rather not visit and people you’d rather not meet. And it’s about mums. With big boobies. And dogs. And meatpaste. Oh so right.

But if you’re one of those who has grown out of meatpaste jokes, don’t think that makes you the better person, because it doesn’t. The meatpaste jokes haven’t gotten any older than you after all. In life, it’s not how old your jokes are that count, but how old your best stories have become. If yours end by concluding, ‘And that was the last time I ever pulled anyone at The Palace,’ it’s about time you admitted to yourself that you’re now about as interesting as a married woman who once gave great head, ‘When I used to do that sort of thing’.

Today the Trash Whore Diaries are 10 years old. Who’d have thought it could come so far? Or for so long? Or so hard? The updates may have slowed down to a trickle of piss being forced past an enlarged prostate, but you can be sure that the occasional spurts of brilliance, which your regular host provides, will be reliably delivered all over the toilet seat as they always were – and to hell with the consequences.

So if you’re settling down to a nice hot cup of cocoa in your silk pyjamas tonight, feeling superior as you listen to your Michael Buble Christmas album, consider this: in another 10 years time you may just discover that your hard-cultivated ‘sophistication’, your adherence to social niceties, and your newly-found sense of civic responsibility are all just illusions. No more real than the impossibly large prosthetic phalluses they use in all modern porn films.

In the next decade - if you’re a man - you will most likely suffer a mid-life crisis and - if you’re a woman - you’ll divorce him. As you hang around bars a decade from now, trying to bag yourself teenagers, you may find some truth in the bottom of a glass of chateau la fete 2016; that for the last 10 years you’ve been pretending to be something you’re not.

That’s why the world needs the Trash Whore Diaries, perhaps more now than ever. To show you that another path is still possible. It’s never too late to stop growing up, to jump ahead of the curve. Don’t throw away the next 10 years in fruitless endeavour. The teenagers are out there.

I gave her one final kiss under the CCTV camera behind what was once the old Dr Drakes. 
‘You know Brooke, this really used to be the place back in the day,’ I said


‘I know, I used to come here too Sleazy Bob.’


‘Here? The venue or the beer barrel?’

She just laughed at that.

‘You know, I think you’ll find that no one calls me Sleazy Bob anymore.’


She laughed again as she made her way into the night, turned back and shouted, ‘I think you’ll find they do... SLEAZY BOB!'

Her laughter bounced off the cobblestones as she turned, and I watched her tender posterior disappear from view. What a woman!

As I walked down the road with a swagger in my step and a stink in my groin I had a little smile to myself as I remembered something I thought I’d forgotten. No one person lives forever, but the Trash Whore magic never dies.

Happy Anniversary Trash Whore Diaries.

Over to you Kai...

[Why thank you Bob, that was beautiful. For once, words fail me.  I think I'll leave your anniversary post to sink in over the weekend before attempting a celebratory - but hopefully not too self-congratulatory - Trash Whore piece of my own on Monday. I've no idea what direction it's going to take, but now that you've simultaneously raised the bar and lowered the tone, I'll need to be at my very best/worst to prove that I've still got it/never had it - Kai.]