Kicking It

Hi, I'm Charlie Mongoose, and in this instalment of Kicking It, I'll be swinging into the latest craze sweeping the nation's parks, gardens and wooded areas; erotic forestry, otherwise known as pussy willowing, bark scraping and sappy cracking.

I'll be talking some of the chief proponents of erotic forestry about how they discovered the hobby, what it means to them, and the best rehabilitation facilities available to people that have injured themselves while slapping the sapling.

As EF is currently illegal in the UK, we at Concrete Octopus have agreed to hide the identities of some of the people involved in the following article.

First up, we have Joseph and Miranda Peepus, from Hartlepool:

Charlie Mongoose: Joseph, Miranda, thanks for agreeing to talk to me.

Joseph Peepus: You didn't really give us much of a choice.

CM: What? Come on, of course you had a choice.

Miranda Peepus: You threatened to tell our families unless we agreed to the interview—my mum's a devout Catholic, you know? She’ll do her nut if she finds out about us pussy willowing every weekend.

CM: Yeah, but you make that sound like a bad thing? I mean, all I want is for you to tell me a little about the erotic forestry scene—the ins and outs, the dos and don'ts, what it's like to swing from the treetops with a hedge-trimmer in one hand and your husband’s knob in the other. It's not like I'm going to publish it with your real names attached or anything.

JP: It still feels a lot like blackmail.

CM: Pshh. No... That's ridiculous. Ridiculous and actionable.

MP: Whatever. As long as you don't use our real names for the article, we'll answer your questions.

CM: Don't worry, we have an excellent editorial team—they'll make sure you're assigned suitable pseudonyms when it comes time for us to publish.

(Oscillation Jones: Hey, Charlie, you never responded to my email about picking fake names for your interviewees so I'm just going to go ahead and assume you got permission from the tree-fucker society or whatever to print them as written—if not, you need to contact me immediately. Also, this had better not appear in the final draft because if it does, it means you haven't read through my editorial notes and I'm going to have to put you on probation—Martha's not around to save your hide at the moment and I'd love nothing better than to watch the chief editors defenestrate you like some sort of Czech governor circa 1618—e.g. there'll be a big pile of shit waiting to cushion your fall. OJ xx)

JP: Good. Fine. What do you want to know?

CM: How did you two discover erotic forestry?

MP: It was through a friend of ours—Joanne. She owns the allotment next to ours.

JP: She's also part of our dogging group.

MP: Makes excellent cucumber sandwiches.

***

I caught up with Joanne Kesey at the Wet Lettuce Café on Park Road, which she runs with her partner, Chapstick Ravensly, to find out more.

Joanne Kesey: I heard you put the squeeze on Joseph and Miranda.

CM: That's a very loaded term.

JK: Says who?

CM: Terry Bumfist—he's very litigious when it comes to squeezing and its associated terminology. Do you know him?

Chapstick Ravensly: Who doesn't?

JK: He used to run a copse[1] in Epping Forest a few years back—before it was infested with bandits and weirdos. Nowadays you can't rustle a shrub in that place without some nutter jumping out at you, mumbling about production costs and casting calls.

CR: It's like Skid Row with trees and more lunatics.

CM: So, you introduced the Peepus's to erotic forestry?

JK: Yeah, we got them into EF—no biggy. It's not that much of a leap from common or garden dogging—just a quick safety workshop and away you go.

CM: And just how safe is it? I've heard some troubling rumours—

CR: You don't want to listen to rumours.

JK: There's a lot of misinformation about bark scraping out there—mostly from embittered ex-pussy willowers. Nothing to get your sweet-peas in a twist about.

***

JP: Yeah, it's pretty fucking dangerous.

MP: I mean, where's the fun in safety?

JP: We've heard a few horror stories, sure, but that goes with the territory, right?

CM: Could you share one with me?

JP: I don't know if we should.

MP: It's a very close-knit community—if word got out we were… What are you doing?

CM: Just making a quick phone call.

MP: Is that my mum's phone number?

CM: I don't know, is it?

MP: Jesus, fine, you fucking creep, we'll tell you.

JP: There was a guy called Logan Du Poivre.

MP: He worked in the theatre—lighting and special effects. Kind of famous, actually.

JP: He was a bit wild, you know?

MP: Always experimenting.

JP: I mean, we've all got a bit of that in us—you don't harness up and start cracking sap otherwise.

MP: But he took things to the extreme.

CM: What happened to him?

JP: He was never part of our copse.

MP: Based in Bedfordshire, I think.

JP: But he was doing some pretty crazy stuff with string trimmers—really dangerous.

MP: Out of control.

JP: He learned to spin them around like a baton in a marching band.

MP: He got pretty good at it—he could trim verges like no one else.

JP: But he got a bit too good at it.

MP: He got cocky.

JP: One day, he decided he'd grow out his pubic hair and use the trimmer to shave his junk.

CM: Oh...

MP: Yeah. Exactly.

JP: We don’t know precisely what happened, but we heard he had to go to a penis surgeon in Sweden to get it re-attached.

***

JK: So they told you about Logan, huh?

CR: That guy was a complete numpty.

JK: Yeah, I have to say, my sympathy is limited. What do you expect, when you’re using gardening equipment to give yourself a Brazilian?

CR: Total fuck-nut.

CM: So that sort of thing isn’t common in erotic forestry?

JK: God no. I mean, not in our copse it isn’t.

CR: That sort of thing tends to result in people getting uprooted[2]—I mean, we’re all for pushing the envelope, but you have to draw the line somewhere, where safety is concerned.

CM: So you’ve personally never witnessed any serious incidents?

JK: No.

***

MP: There was one accident I remember.

JP: The Jungle Boys?

MP: Yeah.

CM: Who?

JP: They’re a pan-sexual art collective—very avant-garde.

MP: Some people are into EF because it’s a turn-on, right? The Jungle Boys were more into the performative aspect.

JP: They’d put on shows every month—a sort of Cirque du Soleil, but with chainsaws and bumming.

MP: Arboreal Arses, they called it.

JP: High-wire capers, you know? Lots of trapeze action and gymnastics.

CM: What happened?

MP: A bunch of guys playing Tarzan in the buff, throwing chainsaws around? What do you think happened?

CM: Right.

***

JK: It could have happened to anyone—I mean, just because they were part of our copse doesn’t mean Lush Crimptoes wouldn’t have chainsawed his dick off somewhere else.

CR: Yeah, you can’t really lay that particular penis at our door—they’d been performing Arboreal Arses for years before that incident.

JK: It was only a matter of time.

CM: Are there any injuries you know of that don’t involve men getting their tackle cut off?

JK: Chapstick here once got a nasty rash on her left tit.

CR: Yeah, but it cleared up pretty quickly—a bit of aloe lotion saw to it.

CM: Right…

JK: Er… Let me think…

CR: Oh, yeah, wait, didn’t you get a splinter once?

JK: Yeah, that’s right, I forgot about that!

CM: Big, was it?

JK: No, not really, but it went right into the bottom of my foot—must have hit a nerve-ending or something because it felt like I’d stepped on a nail.

***

I decided it was high-time I get to grips with the dangers involved in erotic forestry, so I attempted to track down Logan Du Poivre for an interview. Unfortunately, Logan refused to meet with me and seemed quite agitated by the fact that I knew about his woodland peccadilloes. Thankfully, he agreed to put me in contact with the remaining members of the Jungle Boys in exchange for concealing his identity in this article.

I met them in SJQ in Dalston, where they were scheduled to perform their new show, L’Après-midi Branlette d’un Faune.

Languid Vic: I mean, yeah, there are a disproportionate number of penis-related injuries when it comes to pussy willowing.

Limp Stiffly: That’s why we got out—after Lush lopped the top of his helmet off with a Black+Decker, we decided enough was enough.

LV: Too rich for our blood.

Labrat Ganglia: It’s a shame—Arboreal Arses was probably one of the best things we ever did. We got the choreography down pat and we were hoping to go international with it—tour the great forests of Europe.

LS: Swing from the baobabs of Madagascar.

LV: Dangle our dicks from the great sequoia of the Sierra Nevada.

LG: Expose our man-holes amongst the mangroves of Guangdong.

LV: Alas.

CM: In your opinion, is there any particular reason for the gender disparity when it comes to life-altering injuries?

LV: Yeah, we’re idiots (laughs). But no, seriously, men are dumbasses.

LS: We make terrible decision all the time.

LG: We’re constantly rolling the dice in the great cosmic game of craps—sometimes you get double sixes and that double-tuck chainsaw dismount to two-handed wank pans out perfectly…

LV: Sometimes you get snake-eyes and the next thing you know, your cock’s flown off behind a bushel of stinging nettles.

LS: The girls tend to be a bit more sensible. Don’t get me wrong, they can get pretty sappy themselves—Joanne and Chapstick get up to all sorts…

LG: But they tend to be less enamoured with power-tools.

LV: For a lot of them, it’s just about getting their kit off and having a quick shag in a sycamore—not that there’s anything wrong with that.

***

JK: They said what?!

CR: That’s pretty chauvinistic.

JK: Yeah, we’re quite wild, actually.

CR: Just because we’re not playing chainsaw-roulette with our genitals doesn’t mean we play it safe.

JK: Fucking pigs…

CR: Guess who’s not getting a saucy Christmas card this year?

CM: Is… Is it me?

(OJ: Jesus Christ, Charlie, get some fucking self-respect. I know you’re still cut-up about Martha and everything, but this is a new low, even for you. OJ xx)

***

MP: Joanne and Chapstick can hang vines with the best of them—I mean, they practically invented EF.

JP: The first time we went along to the copse, we saw them performing an 8-way tribadism with an oak tree—it was crazy. They must have been, what? Ten metres up? Not a harness in sight, just eight limbs and a lot of sap.

MP: That was some proper pussy willowing—very sexy. The Jungle Boys are all flash—impressive in their way, but showy. What Joanne and Chapstick do takes class.

***

LV: Who?

CM: Joseph and Miranda Peepus? They’re part of the Hartlepool copse?

LS: Oh, you mean the squirrelly lady and her chipmunk-looking husband?

CM: I guess they have a bit of the woodland critter about them, yes.

LG: Yeah, those two are super vanilla—real milquethistles[3].

LV: Proper posies[4].

LS: I don’t think I ever saw them doing any real forestry the entire time we were part of that copse—mostly, they just frolicked around the shrubs taking pictures for their OnlyFans.

LG: At that point, it’s not really EF, it’s just public nudity.

LS: So 2015.

CM: Can you tell me anything about the accident in Hartlepool?

LV: What’s to tell? Lush fucked up, plain and simple.

LS: He was supposed to perform a 540° Double-Ivy Knot-Thrust and enter me mid-air for a two-way rocking-horse dismount.

LG: What he actually did was more of a 520° Triple-Acorn Nut-Bust.

LS: Tragic. Real fucking tragic.

CM: Would 20° really make that much of a difference?

LV: I don’t know, would losing 20% of your cock really make that much of a difference (laughs). But no, seriously, it was horrifying.

CM: How is Lush doing? Is there any credence to the rumour that he’s still in Sweden under the care of Dr. Fentanyl Harmstrong?

LS: Who told you that?

CM: I’m afraid I can’t disclose my sources.

LG: Was it Joanne and Chapstick?

CM: I’m not saying.

LV: Not saying what? Yes, it was them, or no it wasn’t?

CM: Either. Neither. Both. Just answer the fucking question.

LS: Easy there, lumberjack, no need for that.

LG: Yeah, we’re being cooperative, aren’t we? We’re just curious about where this morel of information came from, you know?

LV: Don’t be a prick about it.

CM: Sorry, guys, I’m sorry, it’s just… Well… I’ve recently had a messy workplace affair with a female colleague and it didn’t really pan out like I thought it would.

(OJ: Oh, Charlie, no… No… Don’t tell the circus-porn weirdos about your love-life, and definitely don’t submit the conversation for publication—that’s a rookie error. I tell you what, we’ll have a chat when you get back from holiday, and me, you and Ken will go for drinks after work—lads’ night out, just the three of us. We’ll set you up with a nice girl and you can put this business with Martha behind you—she was way out of your league anyway. OJ xx)

LV: Ah, that’s tough, man.

LS: Yeah, sorry to hear about that—workplace romances never end well.

LG: I thought Martha Fugnugget was dating the ghost of Wayne Gretzky?

CM: Who said it was Martha Fugnugget?

LG: She’s literally the only woman at Concrete Octopus—that’s why your editors keep wheeling her out for special features, right?

CM: That’s not… I mean… Come on, there’s plenty of women…

LV: Name one.

CM: Er…

LS: It doesn’t matter—what matters is you need a way to get over her, right?

CM: I suppose.

LS: Well then, why not take up EF?

LG: It’s a great way to meet new people.

LV: Yeah, I’d say almost half the pussy willowers we know are jilted lovers.

CM: It sounds pretty dangerous from what I’ve heard so far.

LS: Only if you’re doing it right.

***

And so I found myself amidst the majesty of the New Forest—the forest of renewal, where love swings from the treetops in a black leather harness and a spandex leotard. Erotic forestry, to those that have never experienced its delights, may seem like an indulgent, impenetrable and decadent pastime—an extreme form of exhibitionism that betrays the attention-seeking character of its advocates. The reality, as I have come to realise, is far different. EF is about liberation, performance and community—truly, you don’t know the meaning of the last of these until you have helped remove splinters from a stranger’s buttocks, or gone searching for dock leaves to sooth the nettle stings on a lover’s naked thighs. Sure, sometimes things get a little dicey up there amongst the bird’s nests, but that’s life—what, after all, is living, without a little risk, even when said risk involves accidentally snipping your dick off with a pair of pruning shears?

Martha, if you’re reading this, I’m doing fine—I’m cracking the sap, scraping the bark, pussying the willow and I’m doing it all without you.

(OJ: Charlie, I thought this was supposed to be a sports column? Batang! and Sewer Canoeing I can just about accept, but by the sounds of it this whole article was just an excuse to go out and get laid. I’ll make an exception this time, since you’re clearly not in a good state of mind, but once you’re back from buggering hedgerows—or whatever it is you’re doing—I expect a proper feature on a proper recognisable sport, like synchronised cooking, or miniature moose fighting. OJ xx)