Pond porn

If we go down in flames this month, even with four hundred eggs rattling around inside ET making her the world's biggest maraca, I think we will have to return to nature.

We can't do it, they can.

We must not be doing it right, they are doing it right. Right now, right outside the window.

There are a few problems to overcome if we follow the amphibious example though.

Will the neighbours object to us coming over all 'Adam n'Eve' in the front garden?

How do we stop the door from slamming shut and locking us out?

How do you get those tiny green leaves out of pubic hair?

Where do we find a third person and how does that work, exactly?

Is that froggy style?

Does that mean frogs have tilted cervices?

Why, if this is technically the shortest two week wait thanks to a whole one hour spared due to daylight saving, is it actually the longest two weeks ever?

Why am I fascinated with frog sex?

Beats 'just relaxing' anyway, I guess.

Tubular bells?

What's going on in there I wonder?

One way or another it's a lot busier than a normal month down there, deep in the bowels of ET's reproductive system.

There's anything up to a half dozen eggs or so all getting in each other's way, borrowing each other's clothes, and bitching behind one another's backs.

Shuffling slowly down those fallopian tubes, standing on the pair of heels in front of them, inching along and impatiently cursing their fellow passengers.

From the other end, Spencer and his crew have made several attempts to negotiate the most treacherous assault course known to humanity. If any of the lazy, disorientated, mutant headed gits even make it to the final hurdle they are in for one hell of a shock.

Up to now the last remaining wank warriors have only ever come face to face with one unwelcoming egg, making it easy for them to avoid having to do any bloody work. This time however, the milky explorers will turn that uterine junction to be faced with a scene out of some bad science fiction B film.

Half a dozen clomidically cloned zombie eggs looming large before them.

If past performance is anything to go by, that sight should be enough to start the swimmers slamming on the breaks and looking for reverse. It just takes one though, one with a bit of a swagger about him, one jack the lad, one with an eye for the ladies and stomach for a challenge.

Pick your target young man, choose your egg, turn on the charm and go in for the kill. Let this be the end of it, stand up and be counted, make a name for yourself, be the one to succeed where billions of your predecessors have failed before you.

I think I need to find a theme tune for this, to motivate, encourage, and inspire. I'm torn between 'The battle hymn of the republic' and R-Kelly's 'I believe I can fly'. Unfortunately, ET has categorically ruled out allowing me to pipe the music in by sticky-taping my iPod to her crotch.

Back to the drawing board.

Mother nature & Dr. DooALittleTooMuch

They've done it before, and now they are doing it again.

Under our very noses, at this very moment, they are rogering each other senseless in an amphibious orgy.

They are out there now, flaunting their fertility en mass. There's hardly a patch of water surface area that doesn't have a couple of froggy heads peering out totem pole style.

Dozens of sets of 4 bulging post pond coital eyes gazing up at us, having ridden each other ragged.

The croaking is getting louder and louder, akin to announcing that they are about to slip into something a little more comfortable. The water is rippling like an inconvenient duvet in the wake of kermitty couples jockeying for the best position.

Within days we'll be slipping on piles of fertilised frog spawn, and in just weeks the garden will be a living hallucination as tiny frog babies hop all over the place.

Last year I was irritated by their brazenness, and overwhelmed by their fecundity, but this year I feel a certain kinship with my pond-dwelling buddies.

On the surface we may not look much alike, but similarities exist. They too have to wait for the signs before they can commence their own project of hump n'hop, we note it's CD14, they note it's the end of March. If you think we are under pressure to give it our best on cue once a month, can you comprehend the level of froggy stress at having only one shot a year? You may moan about the state of your sheets afterwards, but just imagine having to swim around all day with your own embryos floating around your head.

I wonder if frogs can be infertile? Are there a couple of pale, short, brace wearing frogs in the pond somewhere, huffing and puffing with no tadpoles to call their own?

If I could identify them, I'd help.

I'd break up a 100mg Clomid tablet, stick the pieces to some dead insects, and toss them into the pond. Little froggy ET would gobble them up, get all emotional for a while, but then I'd bring her out and give her our unused trigger shot.

I'd coax little froggy xbox into a shoebox, leaving him with my iPod running videos of animal planet and a contact lens holder to deposit into.

All that would remain would be get little froggy ET to spread those French delicacies of hers long enough for me to find her amphibious love tunnel and fill her with her beau's best.

I wouldn't charge them a penny for my services and kindness, but should froggy xbox and froggy ET accidentally happen to meet their demise at the paws of our neighbour's cat, I'd raise their tadpole family as my own.

If that Madonna bitch doesn't get there first again.