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 PORN
& PONG
How Grand Theft Auto,
Tomb Raider
and Other Sexy Games
Are Changing Our Culture

Feral House
Porn & Pong: How Grand Theft Auto, Tomb Raider and Other Sexy
Games Are Changing Our Culture ©2008 by Damon Brown, All Rights
Reserved

Cover design by
Interior designed by Sean Tejaratchi

Feral House
1240 W. Sims Way Ste. 124
Port Townsend, WA 98368
Send S.A.S.E. for free catalogue of publications

[email protected]
www.feralhouse.com

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
“Pornography is the secret engine that drives the adoption of most modern
technology, videogames included. By connecting the dots (or rather, pixels)
between interactive media and that most interactive of human experiences,
Brown shows the pivotal role erotic content has played in the evolution of this
new medium, as well as the furor and controversy it inevitably stirs up.”
—Scott Alexander, Senior Editor, Playboy

“A stimulating look at two of today’s most controversial subjects… Sure to

amaze and titillate anyone who’s ever hoisted a videogame controller.”
—Scott Steinberg, CNN Tech Correspondent
and author of Videogame Marketing and PR

“Damon Brown tells the tale of the marriage of pop culture, video games, and
porn with a geek’s glee and a historian’s attention to detail.”
—Audacia Ray, Author of Naked on the Internet:
Hookups, Downloads and Cashing In on Internet Sexploration

“I have no idea why Damon Brown included Leisure Suit Larry in this book about
all those dirty games, but I must agree with the U.S. Supreme Court: I can’t
define a good game, but I know one when I see one!”
—Al Lowe, Creator of Leisure Suit Larry, www.allowe.com

“A thorough, meticulously researched history of video games and other adult

entertainment, providing much food for thought about a generation that grew up
taking all of it for granted. Just how many of today’s best games do we owe to
sex, anyway?”
—Regina Lynn, Wired.com Sex Drive columnist
and author of The Sexual Revolution 2.0
TO MOM, MY SUPPORT
TO JANE, MY GUIDE
&
TO PARUL, MY LOVE
 Contents
FOREWORD.......................................................................... 11
HISTORICAL SHORTHAND.................................................. 15

The Porn Era

(1972–1995)
SPACESHIPS........................................................................22
PROTECTION......................................................................35
OTAKU.................................................................................48

THE LARA CROFT ERA

(1996 – 2001)
VIRGINS..............................................................................xxx
WILDFLOWERS...................................................................xxx
CLOSETS............................................................................xxx

THE GRAND THEFT AUTO ERA

(2001 – 2007)
FRANKENSTEIN..................................................................xxx
BOYS...................................................................................xxx
ERUPTION..........................................................................xxx

AFTERWORD......................................................................xxx
FOR FURTHER READING...................................................xxx
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.....................................................xxx
BIBLIOGRAPHY..................................................................xxx
ABOUT THE AUTHOR.........................................................xxx
 FOREPLAY
A FOREWORD
BY JON M. GIBSON

Growing up, I was sexually retarded.

The videogame industry now is about as stupid I was then about sex.
And I was really fucking stupid.
When I was eight, I was caught playing doctor with a girl across the
street. We were merely “examining” each other’s parts, but her younger
sister still ratted us out. That same year, I began forcefully sleeping on top of
my hardons, convinced that half-mast was the status quo and that my dick
pointing dead north was somehow freakish. As a ten year old, I waited until
my dad blacked out with an empty bottle of Jack in his hand, then hijacked
the remote to watch awkwardly scripted pay-per-view porn like Dinosaur
Island on the illegal “black box” in the living room. I always felt like God was
judging me when I jerked off — it’s like he was mounted on my conscience,
tisk tisking me from above. In seventh grade, our sex ed teacher suggested
“not wearing sweatpants anymore, because they make erections harder to
conceal. Jeans are much better.” I thought blowjobs meant someone actually
blew into your peehole. My first kiss at 15 was an accident — the result of my
friend Dobie saying, “Why don’t you two just make out already?” So we did…
awkwardly. I lost my virginity in a hot tub at 17. We broke into our apartment
complex’s Recreation Building, started hooking up, got naked, and thought
it would be sexy, like in an R-rated movie.
It wasn’t.
Since puberty, I had collected all these fragments of sexual knowledge.
I could have filled a dozen bookbags, but still, none of it made any sort of
sense. It was like a puzzle that’s all sky, but no clouds.
 Howard Hughes solved that one way back in 1928 filming Hell’s Angels.
After wasting a full year and spending millions to shoot forty-five biplanes
against a weather-less sky at Mines Field in Inglewood (now LAX) and
Caddo Field in Van Nuys, Hughes realized that without clouds, you couldn’t
really tell how fast the planes were flying. The dogfights appeared almost
static. They were pathetic. So in October 1928, he bankrolled a move to
Oakland airfield near San Francisco in search of those much-important
cotton balls in the sky.
See, it’s these little details that are indispensable — the shit you
never think about. Hell’s Angels grossed $8 million at the box office (the
equivalent of a movie now grossing about $100 mil). It was a hit, no thanks
to performances by stars like Jean Harlow, but because the aerial stunts were
so damn awesome.
The clouds were what made that badass ballet of dozens of bi-planes
swooping, diving, and dodging each other possible.
Hughes was an innovator — the slickest of problem-solvers — while
most filmmakers of the era were like I was during puberty: blind. The little
stuff (like clouds) is invisible to the audience when they’re focusing on the
cool shit (like planes)… but the clouds are still essential. Other directors
would have settled for no clouds, just to save a buck.
This is incredibly naïve.
It’s like thinking that sex is all about boobs and ass — the confused,
childish notions of a teenager’s Sexpedia. (Hell, I used to firmly believe that
the vagina was located two inches above where it actually is.)
This is precisely how the videogame industry regards sex.
Like a stupid fucking teenager.
Lara Croft and her watermelon tits, BMX XXX and its barebacked riders,
and God of War with its thrusting mini-game — all sky, no clouds.
The correct order is clouds, then sky. Then planes.
Until the game industry realizes this, it’ll forever be trapped in puberty.
Which, looking back now with the knowledge I’ve gained since my sexual
awakening… well, it’s incredibly embarrassing.
Humiliating, even.
But videogames are young (born: 1958) compared to literature, film,
fine art, music, and all sorts of other age-old media — a proverbial drop in
the gigantic ocean of culture; amoebas, barely evolved. Gutenberg invented
the printing press in 1439; and the guitar came about some 5,000 years
before that. Hell, pictures painted with blood on cave walls used to be the
finest form of storytelling. And ever since that first smudge was made with

12
a thumb, one of the most commonly explored topics through these means
has been sexuality.
Clouds are the reason why burlesque is so impossibly hot, and why
strippers strip rather than just walk onto stage totally naked. Clouds are the
warm-up, the lead-in, the anticipation that propels the end product into a
completely different stratosphere.
It’s the kissing of the neck, the tonguing of the nipple, the rubbing of the
clit with one finger then the insertion of two. It’s all that sensuous touching,
the turning on of the whole body. It’s the under-the-table thigh massages
while the waiter takes your order. It’s the sly sexual banter over AIM while
you’re plotting the date. It’s the inaugural phone call with only subtle, but
all-too-telling innuendo. It’s that very first glance when one of your several
attempts to make eye contact is finally received.
It’s the foreplay that videogames lack.
They just skip straight to the fucking, on an express to orgasm. Evidenced
by horny-boy fluff like Dead or Alive Xtreme Beach Volleyball, Playboy: The
Mansion and The Guy Game, boobs and booty — the McDonald’s drive-thru
version of sexy — are the only things that seem to matter.
The anticipation — the visual, verbal, and physical foreplay — is just as
hot as the sex. Much like we get engrossed in the chase of Romeo & Juliet and
the courting in Jane Austen romances, the journey is just as important as the
climax. Hitchcock perfected this approach with his masterpieces of suspense;
Basic Instinct applied those same principles to the sexual thriller. We tuned
into Friends every week for countless seasons before Ross and Rachel ever
got together, and squealed when M*A*S*H’s Hawkeye and Hotlips Houlihan
eventually hooked up. From Here to Eternity, Mulder and Scully, “Stairway
to Heaven,” When Harry Met Sally, even “Bohemian Rhapsody” — all were
legendary slow builds.
Sure, it’s all too easy to remember just the orgasm — it’s tremendous.
However, it’s adolescent to forget how you got there, and especially foolish
to not take your time getting there.
Besides, it’s natural to only focus on the planes, forgetting about the
clouds entirely. Because, well, orgasms always feel spectacular. I couldn’t
help but ogle Lara Croft’s tits, search the internet for cheat codes to unlock
all the nudity in BMX XXX, or continuously bounce up and down for minutes
on end, just to watch Kasumi’s boobies jiggle in Xtreme Beach Volleyball.
It’s enjoyable for a second… but it’s worthless in the end.
My sexual awakening began when I realized that I wasn’t thinking about
the clouds. Maybe someone clues you in, maybe it just clicks. I just didn’t

13
consider their importance, not in the slightest. I was moron not to, because
each cloud is a building block, an essential stepping-stone on the path to
complete ecstasy.
Clouds are necessary, and should not be neglected.
They provide context, and without context it’s just a come shot.
Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas addresses this on a very basic, but
admirable, level. Your character in the game, Carl “CJ” Johnson, must take his
lady friend, Denise, on several dates before consummating their relationship.
He must endure many cut scenes and several nights of consecutive outings
before Denise finally gives it up. The culmination is the infamous “Hot Coffee”
mini-game that allows you to do the deed with her.
Quite simply, since it takes a while to get to the sex — especially if you’re
working extra-diligently for it — it’s that much more satisfying.
The industry needs to recognize, and then harness, the power of clouds
(a.k.a. foreplay) before we’ll see a major shift in the way sexuality is portrayed
in games.
That’s how I became “good” at sex.
I realized the might of clouds.
And I expect to only get better, and maybe — eventually — I will proudly
wear badges like “great,” “spectacular” or “mind-blowing.” Still, it’s entirely
subjective. At twenty five, I have absolutely no license to spout such things,
even if my partners would gladly gift me a gold star. Knowledge is progress
— knowledge is innovation — but only if you pay attention.
I know it can only get better.
Right now, though, the only adjective that comes to mind to describe
how the video game industry performs at sex… well… is something no one
ever wants to hear from their lover:
Awful.
Just plain awful.

Jon M. Gibson
March 2008
Los Angeles, CA

14
 HISTORICAL
SHORTHAND
Porn and video games: It’s an awkward subject for an entire book. I
admit it. When confronted with why I devoted so much time and effort to it,
I would retreat into the posture of academic objectivity and reply that there
is a pattern, a parallel, between video games and major shifts in pop culture.
After all, if we examined games as closely as their immense cultural impact
merited, and not dismissed them offhand, there’s no question that we’d
learn far more about ourselves than yet another field trip to the symphony
or the local art museum.

The big idea here is that there is nothing new under the sun. Extremist
like Fox mouthpiece Bill O’Reilly talk about Internet pornography corrupting
our society, the destructive power of sexy reality television and, of course,
the connection between youth sexual violence and a game of Grand Theft
Auto. While kids should be protected, it is also important to recognize that
erotic expression within pop culture is hardly new. Concerns were thrown
on comic books in the fifties, when artists were forced to cover their curvy
vixens up and not discuss adult situations. Brutally sexual – or sexually
brutal – grindhouse movies and bikini films from the likes of Russ Meyer
and Roger Corman fed a generation’s appetite for tempting villainesses and
pseudo-sadomasochistic antics, as did film noir, blaxploitation and other
film genres before and after. Today we’re watching Lara Croft’s breast heave
in her too-tight tank top or a Grand Theft Auto prostitute giving our hero his
money’s worth. We still want dark sexual thrills through our entertainment.
The only thing that has changed is the medium. If the corruption of modern
society were only about sexual content, wouldn’t previous generations, with
their filthy comic books, exploitation films and burlesque shows, be just as
dysfunctional as we are? I suspect that’s the case.

15
 This is a young subject. The modern pornography industry began just
thirty five years ago, near when I was born. Modern video games also started
around the same time, and the lasting impact of this cultural convergence
has yet to be analyzed. This book is live coverage of two moving targets. The
concepts of modern pornography and video games are evolving literally
every day. Modern history is not static. Porn & Pong is a Polaroid, not a final
assessment.

And while we won’t completely understand the impact of, say, Lara Croft
on our pop culture landscape until much later, the earliness and immaturity
of video game eroticism makes it even more important to document this
right now. When my young Gen X generation was growing up, pornography
meant bootleg VCR tapes and softcore Cinemax. To the previous generation,
pornography meant Playboy magazine and, depending on their knowledge
and location, Times Square peep show booths. To their parents, it was Faster
Pussycat Kill Kill! and, if they were lucky, elicit 35-mm films watched on
expensive home projectors. Video games have had an even more explosive
evolution. My grandparents weren’t even exposed to modern pornography
or to video games until they were in their forties. The fact that we went
from Deep Throat and Pong to online prostitution and in-game virtual sex
partners in three decades shows how technology is pushing us into new
sexual mores as, as a result, more sexual quandaries than ever before. Does
the technology of sharing intimate words on a keyboard afford us a new
type of sexual connection as much as, say, phone sex lines did previously? Is
a virtual working girl, pleasuring men in an online fantasy game, as criminally
guilty of prostitution as the high-heeled woman walking the downtown
streets? Mature video games bring these philosophical, ethical questions to
the forefront, and while we’re dealing with the same shit – sexual dynamics
– the rapid growth of technology is creating a new world worth exploring, if
not actively building ourselves.

It is also important to notice the exponential rise of actual sex in video

games, and this is because of both the gaming audience and society in
general. According to the Electronic Software Association, the average gamer
is a thirty-five year old male, and, looking backwards, the average age has
increased by one year ever year in recent memory (thirty three in 2005, thirty
four in 2006, and so on). The eighties teenagers raised on Mario are now
sexually-active men around the peak of the average pornography consumer

16
– so, yeah, there is more sex in video games than ever before. Society as a
whole is also on the fast track to understanding and adjusting to new sexual
opportunities. Going back to the release of Deep Throat, the sexual world of
1972 had no herpes, VCRs, mainstream theater pornography, 1-900 numbers,
softcore cable, AIDS, Internet pornography, online dating, and virtual sex (or,
as it is now called, “cybering”). Wow, how much we’ve had to adapt! Therefore,
this book is bottom heavy: eras fall between 1972 and 1995, 1996 and 2001,
and 2001 and 2008, and each era has twice as many games as the previous
one. It’s harder than ever to follow what is new in our sex-tech crazy world.
Video games are one of the few tangible mediums we can grab onto to
understand who we are, where we’ve been and where we might be going.

My aim is to connect disregarded and ignored video games to movies,

music, sex, technology and other pop culture barometers, so I picked a selection
of games that were most reflective of the times. (Not every sex-oriented game
is in this book. Veteran game designer Brenda Brathwaite’s Sex In Video Games,
released in 2006, gives a more thorough overview of the titles released.) I
focus on titles considered games in the colloquial sense. Grand Theft Auto and
Tomb Raider are discussed, but Virtual Jenna, a sex simulator based on porn
star Jenna Jameson, is not. The exceptions I recognize are Linden Lab’s Second
Life and a handful of other virtual worlds that have made an impact on video
game design as well as modern views of sex and technology. I would have
loved to have mentioned every single title I came across, as there are literally
hundreds, but to capture my broad idea, I had to focus my broad idea. Great
software titles have been mercilessly edited out my inquiry.

I’ve done my best to keep a straight face while discussing digital poo,
jiggling virtual bosoms and other hapless attempts at being sexy. Why? I’ve
found that, underneath these immature gestures, we can see how well our
society is evolving sexual dynamics in the new millennium. And let’s be real: To
better understand this period of time, future generations will not be digging
out the latest Oprah book club selection, nor will they care about the art sold
yesterday at Christie’s or the Yo Yo Ma piece performed at the Met. Instead,
they will recover old Internet pages, rusty non-biodegradable cell phones, bad
Reality TV DVDs, and interactive digital entertainment. Video games will be
part of our historical shorthand. We may as well start looking at them now.

— Damon Brown, July 2008, San Francisco

17
 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Punch, or the London
Charivari, Vol. 109, August 3, 1895
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of
the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it
away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook
or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to
check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 109, August 3, 1895

Author: Various

Editor: F. C. Burnand

Release date: January 23, 2014 [eBook #44735]

Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer

and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI,
VOL. 109, AUGUST 3, 1895 ***
 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 109.August 3, 1895.

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

THE NAVAL MANŒUVRES.

(By our Special Expert, who has been accorded the customary courtesy extended to the
Press.)

On board H.M.S. ——.

---- the —th, 1895.

Forgive me for the vagueness of my address, but it is the desire of those in command that
the greatest secrecy should be observed as to our movements.

"Are we the Blue Fleet or the Red?" I asked only a few moments ago of one of the chief
commanders.

"As you are the guest of the Government," was the immediate reply, "you will not be allowed
to pay your money—except indirectly to the collector of Revenue; but there is nothing to
prevent you from taking your choice!"

From this response you will see that there is a strong inclination on the part of the authorities
that are to remain reticent. However, it is only fair to say that the food is excellent. Nothing
could be better than the wine; and the view on the quarter deck is capital. Still, this is
scarcely an account of naval manœuvring—now is it?

Well, I think I may reveal this much. There are two fleets—a Red Fleet and a Blue Fleet. The
Red Fleet has a number of ships—so has the Blue. Then the Red Fleet tries to out-manœuvre
the Blue Fleet, and the Blue Fleet returns the compliment. All this takes place on the sea. No
ship is allowed to run on shore—unless of course by force of circumstances outside the
control of the commander. And when I had got as far as this, I thought I would make a
further inquiry.

"I presume," said I, to one of the chief officials, "that our object is to——"

At this point I was interrupted.

"Pray ask no more," was the prompt reply of the veteran I had questioned. "Take my advice.
If you wish a question answered, answer it for yourself. Arrange in your own mind that
'Heads' shall mean 'Yes,' and the reverse a negative. Then toss."

And so now I am taking the advice I have received. I have spun my sixpence in the air. I am
to write no more to you. All refuse to send my communications for me. So I place this
document in a bottle and throw it into the sea. You desired the fullest information about the
naval manœuvres. Well—I wish you may get it!

NOTHING LIKE BEING READY WITH AN

EXCUSE.
Elderly Skittish Cousin, "Oh, how unkind of you to have left
me out of your beautiful Party! You seem to have forgotten I'm
your First Cousin!"
He (with no end of near but not very dear relatives). "So
very sorry! First Cousin—ah, yes." (Recovering himself.) "So
long ago, you know.... Had you been my Last Cousin, this never
could have occurred!"

Coins of 'Vantage.—The Dundee Advertiser calls attention to Mr. "Robert Wallace, M.P. Edin.'s,"
complaint that the Imperial Parliament contains, in himself and another Mr. Robert Wallace,
two Members with the same surnames and identical Christian names. Mr. "Robert Wallace,
M.P. Edin.," suggests that he may get his namesake's Christmas bills, while "the other fellow"
receives his (Mr. "R. W., M.P. E.'s") invitations to dinner. Could not the little difficulty be
overcome with the aid of a coin of the realm? Let the first Mr. Robert call himself "Bob," and
the second Mr. Robert "half a florin." This should settle the matter amicably; although both,
no doubt, are worth considerably more than a shilling.

A Severe Critic.—"Slatin' Pasha."

RE-INCARNATION.

Monday.—Have just been reading in the Pall Mall Magazine a wonderful story called "A Re-
Incarnation," by the author of "A Green Carnation." He seems fond of carnations. Re-
Incarnation and Gre-Encarnation. Should have been in the exhibition of the National
Carnation Society at the Crystal Palace. His story tells how a man murdered a white cat, and
afterwards married its soul, re-incarnated in the body of a young woman with "china-blue"
eyes and a large fortune. Marvellous! Must carefully avoid marrying young women with
"china-blue" eyes and large fortunes, though the latter might not be so harmful.

Tuesday.—That theory of re-incarnation impresses me wonderfully. Think about it all night. In

the silent darkness remember that I once stamped on a black beetle. My nurse called it "a
black beadle." Think of this with horror. Will it come back to murder me? Terrible! Get up still
nervous. Must go out into the air and sunlight, to dispel my gloomy thoughts. Stroll along
Piccadilly. To avoid a shower step into the Burlington Arcade. Heavens, what is that by the
entrance? It is a man in black—a black beadle! Gaze at him aghast. It has come back, the
soul of that harmless crawling thing which I crushed in my boyhood, and now——Fly while
there is yet time! Ha! I am safe at home at last.

Wednesday.—Have now no doubt of this marvellous theory. It is probable that re-incarnation

may sometimes go the other way. Will investigate at the Zoological Gardens. Directly I see
the largest elephant I recognise my late mother-in-law. The large, heavy form, the habit of
trampling obstacles under foot—obstacles such as myself—the very cap-strings, now become
ears flapping in the wind, all are there. She always poked her nose into everything, and she
does it now. What a proboscis she has! Must tell the keeper the real truth to prevent
mishaps. Tell him confidentially. He grins. Assure him that I am quite serious. He leads me
gently by the arm to the exit, where the turnstile only turns one way, and advises me to go
home at once.

Thursday.—Fresh proofs every hour. Have just seen an omnibus horse, with the long face,
the great yellow teeth and the general expression of my uncle's second wife. Greatly
overcome, seek rest and refreshment in my club. What is that having lunch over there? Don't
tell me it is an old gentleman with white hair and mild eyes. No! It is my first rabbit, which
died of starvation through my carelessness. See, he is hungrily munching a lettuce! That is
conclusive.

Friday.—My great work on Re-Incarnation begun to-day. It will astonish the world, for it is all
true. By why have my friends asked those two doctors to call? There is nothing the matter
with me. The two fools say I ought to give up all writing and keep quite quiet in the country.
Explain that it is impossible. They insist with gentle firmness. Tell them I have no doubt they
are the two leeches I once took from the bowl at the chemists and put on my little sister's
neck, whence they were removed by the nurse and ruthlessly slaughtered.

Monday.—My diary has been interrupted, for I have been moving to this hydropathic
establishment, as those doctors called it, at Colney Hatch. I don't like the place. Most of the
visitors seem mad. But probably many of these water-drinkers are mad. Wouldn't they be
surprised if they knew who I really am? Ha, ha! It will make a nice summer correspondence
for the Daily Telegraph. To-morrow I will write to that paper stating the actual facts. I also
am re-incarnated. I am, or rather I was, the Great Sea Serpent.

Mrs. R. was very sorry that the clergyman of her parish had been compelled to leave. "You
see," she said, "the poor man fell off his bicycle, and his doctor has told him that for some
time he must try an incumbent position. So he has gone away for another cure."

DEFEATED!
Napoleon R-s-b-ry (meditating). "Um!—Bless Harcourt!"

ODE TO A WATER COMPANY.

(By a Poor Sufferer who "Owes it One.")

Oh, Company, scourge, tyrant, tease!

"Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,"
 (Like woman,)
And variable—in supply—
As your excuses (all my eye!).
Inhuman,
Brutal, and bumptious (corporate) beast!
Harsh as the wind when in the east!
Were water
"Supplied" to Wealth as 'tis to me,
Short is the shrift that you would see!
Last quarter
You "froze me out," you "cut me off,"
And at my plaintive cries would scoff,
(Confuse you all!)
Claiming for what I did not have,
And treating me like a mere slave,
(As usual.)
And now, in Summer, just to suit
Your interests, you (corporate) brute,
You slacken
My poor, inadequate supply.
Yah! I should like your (corporate) eye
To blacken!
When care and heat bedew my brow,
A ministering demon thou!
My fickle
Supply, upon a day quite torrid,
You slacken to a thread-like, horrid,
Slow trickle.
I cannot wash, I dare not drink,
And fever lurks in pipe and sink.
You, scorning
My needs, my health, may turn the screw,
In mercy, for an hour or two
Each morning,—
Or you may not! Or when my throat is
Heat-parched you come and—without notice—
Dissever
Me from the main for a whole day,
As is your little funny way;
And never
Do I complain, with visage meek,
But you administer more cheek,
You Tartar!
And for redress I've little chance
Unless I've stumped up in advance;
Your "charter"
Always exonerating you,
Whether for "putting on the screw"
 Or turning
The service off. Oh, Company!
There are, ah! thousands like poor me,
Who're burning
With indignation at the capers
You play with laundresses, and drapers,
And poor fishmongers.
Beware! The public yet, you bet,
On you that dire revenge will get
For which it hungers!!

AWKWARDLY PUT.
She. "By the way,George, have you got
Evening?"
anything on this
He. "Nothing whatever."
She. "Then come and Dine with us—and
don't Dress!"

ON THE SENIOR SCULLS.

(By our Water Wagtail.)

[The Hon. R. Guinness won the Senior Sculls at the Metropolitan Amateur Regatta,
beating the redoubtable brothers Guy and Vivian Nickalls, believed to be almost
invincible.]
 The rank is but the "Guinness" stamp,
But scullers of the stamp of Guinness
Are not too common. What a damp
To Guy and Vivian this win is!
The Honourable R. has found
How fickle fortune gives hope pickles;
But in this last—aquatic—round
True Guinness gold has beaten Nickalls.
They'll meet, perchance, again, to settle
The game—for all are men of mettle.

The Glass House of Commons.—Some fine "Pairs" already on view.

ELECTION NOTES FROM THE WEST.

This is how the Western Daily Mercury describes "the fight"—before it began. "The electoral
battle continues, but it is a most unequal contest. The Tories have been out-generalled,
outmanœuvred, and outclassed. They are like the Chinese fleet at Yalu, stolid and uncertain,
whilst the Liberals are sailing round them, pouring into them a withering fire from quick-firing
guns, sweeping away masts and signal-yards, and scattering their crews in confusion. The
fire from the Tories is intermittent, insufficient, and badly directed. It is doing very little
harm."

This is quite a gem of nautical description. Such as might justly be expected from a great
naval port like Plymouth, which is the home of the Mercury. The chief beauty of it, moreover,
is that it will serve again to describe the battle—when it is finished ("after the poll"), the only
alteration necessary being a transposition of the two words Tories and Liberals.

Cornwall.—Excellent programme, including Two Macs. As usual, when one "scores," the other
doesn't. McDougall beaten, while McArthur of course held whip-hand in St. Austell's division.

Love's Local Option.—"Drink to me only with thine eyes."

SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.

Another Irish Party!—The snakes are coming back to Ireland! In a Cork paper we read the
following:—

Mr. Cornelius Donovan, while crossing a grass field near Blarney, encountered a snake,
which at first he believed to be an eel, and struck it with his walking stick. Having killed
the reptile, he discovered it was a snake, measuring 3 feet 9 inches.
Evidently a political omen of some kind, this return of the emigrants to Erin. What does it
portend? Mr. M-rl-y, on being consulted, is "inclined to fancy that the Cork snake is a herald
of Coercion, and shows that the venom of Dublin Castle will soon be at work." Mr. G. B-lf-r,
on the other hand, says that "the return of general confidence at the advent of a Unionist
Government, and a really capable Irish Secretary, has never been better exemplified. Even
the reptiles are not afraid now to try Ireland as a place of residence!" And Mr. J-st-n M'C-rthy
has no doubt at all that "the incident is another sign of the growing Irish spirit of disunion.
Did not St. Patrick banish snakes from Ireland? And ought not snakes, if they are worthy of
the name of patriots, to obey St. P., and stay away? Well, they are returning, and defying St.
P.—just as R-dm-nd defies me! And," added the eminent leader, meditatively, "I've often
thought there was a good deal of the eel about him, too."

"Peers are Cheap To-day."—From the North British Daily Mail:—

Bailie Wright, in supporting the motion, said that if he had the power he would make
every man in that meeting a peer, so that they should go to the Lords and resolve upon
their abolition.

Prodigious! But how is the Bailie going to proceed? Bring in a "Bill of Wright's" when he has
got his new nobility ensconced in the Gilded Chamber? And suppose the Bailie's peers decline
to commit suicide?

Air—"Waly, Waly."

O, Bailie, Bailie, your peers be bonnie

A little time while they are new!
But when they're auld, they'll wax most cauld,
And vote in a way to astonish you!

DELIGHTFUL DISCOVERIE.

(A Dialogue at the Service of the "I. G. C.")

Visitor. As I am a stranger in London, can you please tell me how to get to Holly Lodge?

Native. Make for Holloway, and you will get into its neighbourhood.

Visitor. Thanks, very much; and where is the Institute of the Painters in Water Colours?

Native. Why, in Piccadilly, of course; next door to St. James's Church.

Visitor. I am infinitely obliged to you; and now perhaps you will direct me to Carlton House
Terrace, Kew Gardens, Greenwich, and the Docks?

Native. First, behind the Athenæum; and the others you can get to by train after consulting
Bradshaw. But why this thirst for geographical knowledge?

Visitor. Because I am a member of the International Geographical Congress.

Native. Indeed! And what are you going to do at
these places?

Visitor. I am going to be "entertained." In fact, my

duty will be to see and be seen.

Native. And how about geographical research?

Visitor. That will be satisfied to a considerable extent

by a hunt for sandwiches, and a quest for
strawberries and cream!

OFF!
Mature Damsel (as they pass the
Conservatory). "Dear me! What a delicious
smell of"—(archly)—"Orange-blossoms!"
Little Mr. Tipkins (alarmed). "Oh, no—
really—I assure you, nothing of the sort!"
[Bolts.

THE AGE OF CULTURE.

["It is a good omen for the future of agriculture that the upper classes are beginning to
take a practical interest in it."—A Morning Paper.]

Extracts from the "World," June, 1900.

Despite the unfavourable weather, Lady Tipton's garden-party on Wednesday was a great
success. Strawberry-picking was the principal amusement, and some well-known performers
were present. Miss De Mure, as usual, beat all her rivals, but the Bishop of Pulborough was
only half-a-basket behind. Like most of her friends, Lady Tipton has now converted all her
croquet and tennis lawns into fruit-beds.

Lord Grayson is entertaining a large party of friends for bird-scaring this week. Starlings are
somewhat scarce this year, but sparrows are very plentiful and strong on the wing. Some
capital sport was enjoyed over these well-known fields last week, and the host (who used a
blunderbuss manufactured by Messrs. Murdey) is credited with having frightened away about
5000 brace in a single day.
Truth is quite wrong in stating that the Marquis of Coombe intends to sell his well-known
potato-patch in Hammersmith. On the contrary, he has just laid down two dozen new plants.
It is true, however, that several of the smartest people are growing onions instead of
potatoes this year.

As the show-season will soon be with us again, it may be well to remark that the committees
should make certain of the genuine character of the exhibits. It would be disgraceful were
there to be any repetition of such a scandal as occurred last autumn at a leading exhibition,
when it was discovered that the apples belonging to a certain lady of title, to which the prize
already had been awarded, owed their brilliant appearance to the fact that her Grace had
tinted them with water-colours.

The Inter-'Varsity ploughing competition takes place at Lord's on Friday. The Cambridge men
are perhaps the favourites at present, but, though they have undoubtedly done some fast
times, their furrows are apt to be very erratic. Still, under Farmer Hodge's able coaching, they
may be expected to improve greatly in the next few days.

Some of the papers have been making merry over the attempts to start butter-making clubs
among the poorer classes. It is true that butter-making has been considered hitherto almost
exclusively a rich man's recreation; but I do not see why the hard-working labourer, who has
been toiling at golf or polo all day, should not be allowed to amuse himself with this healthy
pastime in the evening, just as much as his superiors in social station.

À propos of butter-making, I hear that a testimonial is to be presented to Mr. Aylesbury, who

has now captained his county team for some years. Of his all-round skill it is needless to
speak; he is a useful change churner, and he had far the highest patting average last season.

How to Spend a Happy Day!—Luncheon, dinner, and breakfast baskets provided for travellers by
the Great Wheel at Earl's Court. Also all requisites for making up fairly comfortable beds in
any one of the compartments. Address Wheel and Woa Co., E. C. S. W.

"MR. SPEAKER!"

"Hats off, strangers!"—Policemen passim.

Now the new House of Commons is complete, and Members are preparing to meet for their
first Session, the question of who is to be Speaker comes to the front. Mr. Punch is pleased
to observe the growing conviction in both political camps that there really is no question on
the subject. Had Mr. Gully performed the duties of Speaker with merely average capacity, the
House of Commons, mindful of its highest traditions, would have been slow to celebrate a
party victory at the polls by dispossessing him in favour of a nominee of the new majority.
His marked success happily makes such action more than ever improbable.
His position was made exceptionally difficult by the
circumstances of the day. Elected by a narrow
majority, he succeeded the greatest Speaker of
modern times. The fierce light that beats on the
Speaker's chair was intensified by the inevitable
contrast between the new occupant and the stately
figure long familiar to the House. From the first Mr.
Gully wisely refrained from even approach to
imitation of the manner of Mr. Peel. That was a thing
apart, like the bow of Ulysses. The new Speaker was
simply himself; and the House of Commons, the
keenest, swiftest, fairest judge of character in the
world, was delighted to find in him perfect
equanimity of temper, a judicial mind, unfailing
readiness in emergency, and a quite surprising
knowledge of the intricacies of procedure.

During his brief tenure of office Mr. Gully was more

than once suddenly faced by a knotty point that
might reasonably have been expected to baffle a
'prentice hand. Never on these occasions has he
failed. Such rare aptitude displayed at the outset of
a career promises the fullness of perfection when, Mr. Speaker Gully.
strengthened and sustained by the unanimous vote
of a new Parliament, the Speaker resumes his work.

New Work.—Messrs. Macmillan have just published The Theory and Practice of Counter-
Irritation, by H. C. Gillies. One example of this could easily be given by anyone in a hurry,
who couldn't get attended to at the Stores, or vice versâ by a counter-jumper at a
linendraper's, whose temper was more than ordinarily tried by some extra-shilly-shallying
customer.

OUR THESPIANS.

Sir Henry Irving's Saturday night at home previous to his departure for America was brilliant.
House so crowded in every part, that the like of it has rarely been seen even at the Lyceum.
Our Ellen, as charming Nance Oldfield, was cheered to the Echo, or would have been had
there been any place left for an Echo in the house. Sir Henry admirable as the old soldier in A
Story of Waterloo, and both he and Miss Terry at their best in the one scene from grand old
Willy Shakspeare's Much Ado about Nothing. The "Much Adoo," as Mr. Weller senior would
have pronounced and spelt it, came after the curtain had fallen, and on both sides the
"Adoo" was changed into a hearty "Au revoir!"

To mention "Henry" is to remember "Johnnie," the Johnnie yclept J. L. Toole, who, Mr. Punch
was delighted to see, looking "fit as a fiddle," having Toole'd up to town from Margate
evidently on the high road to perfect recovery.
 CONCERNING A PUBLIC NUISANCE.

By One who lives Next Door.

[The Salvationists of Warwickshire have lately been restrained by the new county by-law,
which provides that no person shall play any musical instrument within fifty yards of a
dwelling-house.]

Bravo, good men of Warwick! you'd rejoice

John Leech's soul and all whose nerves are shattered
By blatant street musician's raucous voice
Or braying trombone—these at last you've scattered!

Ah! would that London followed now your lead,

And kept a tight hand o'er the rude fanatics
Who blare away her Sunday peace, whose creed
Is uproar, "fire and blood," and acrobatics!

If they'd a grain of humour's saving grace,

Enough to hear themselves as others hear them,
They'd straight retire to some far desert place
And bang and clang and howl where none come near them!

Ev'n as I write, some strain like "Daisy Bell"

With would-be sacred words and tuneless jar racks
My tortured ear—hard fate has made me dwell
Next door, alas! to what they call their "barracks."

Their ranting, roaring may be heav'nly joys,

But me they fill with bile and ire plethoric;
When, I would ask, shall we put down such noise,
As have the worthy citizens of Warwick?

AU REVOIR TO OPERA.

End of operatic season, and a fine season too. The Patti nights exceptionally brilliant. De
Reszke frères, the accomplished Bicycling Brothers, did not appear, but Sir Druriolanus sang
the old song "We're going to do without them" and did so, uncommonly well. Maurel, Ancona,
Plançon, were bright particular stars; while Melba suddenly shone forth as Comet with
magnificent tail, i.e. a great following. Calvé held her own against all comers: and, as
Santuzza, it was a case of "honours divided" with Mdme. Bellincioni, who, it must not be
forgotten, was the original of the part. The Beneficent Bauermeister, of talent unlimited, has
shown that "woman," like man, "in her time can play many parts." Mlle. Bauermeister has
played them; and all equally well.

So farewell Operatics till next year, when Druriolanus need fear no storms, if still provided
with his lightning Conductors Bevignani, Mancinelli & Co. Nor need the Liberal-Conservative
Druriolanus Operaticus think of having to reckon with any formidable rivalry, should the utterly
improbable happen and a new Opposition Opera be started.
Why two Opera Houses cannot succeed in London may be a
problem, but hitherto it is one which dissolution of the weaker
was the only solution. The strong company went to Covent
Garden, and the weak went—to the wall.

Report From a Minor Canon.—Archdeacon Farrar, hitherto

performing "Archi-diaconal functions" at Westminster, has just
been "installed" Dean of Canterbury. There are, clearly, only
two notable installations, one of the Electric Light, and the
other of a Dean. Canterbury has now the chance of being
thoroughly enlightened and electrified.

A CORRECT EYE.
Mrs. Brown has bought her Husband twenty yards of native Scotch Homespun, and has sent for the
Tailor of the Glen to make him a Suit thereof. The Tailor takes the material, gives a glance at Brown,
and is about to depart.
"But look here," says Brown; "you've not taken my Measure!"
Tailor. "Hoot, Man, ye're not deforrm'd!"

YOUNG PRIMROSE'S PARTY.

A Plaint of the Polls.

Air—"Hans Breitmann's Party."

Young Primrose had a Party,

He led it—like a lamb.
It fell in love with a motley thing
They called the Rad Pro-gramme.
They swore that plan to fight for,
Aye, fight till all was Blue;
But when it came unto the Polls,
That Party split in two.

Young Primrose had a Party,

For Progress it was bound;
But all the progress that it made
Was staggering round and round.
The liveliest shindies in the House,
And mockery out-o'-door,
Was all that Party caused, and so
It dwindled more and more.

Young Primrose had a Party.

I tell you it cost him dear.
The Rads he led "rolled into" him
Because he was a Peer:
They tried to knock Bung's spigot in,
The Caineites raised a cheer.
I think that so fine a Party
Never went bust on beer.

Young Primrose had a Party,

They were all "Souse undt Brouse,"[1]
A more divided company
Ne'er wrangled in the House:
They talked of "filling up the cup,"
Vetoing the Vitler's guilt;
But soon they found the pot was full,
And that the cup was spilt.

Young Primrose had a Party,

Although it was not big,
It tried to break the power of beer,
And check the sway of swig!
But soon they found 'twas all in vain,
The brewer they did "cop";
And the company scattered like fighting crowds
When the constable bids them stop.

Young Primrose had a Party,

Where is that Party now?
Where are the lovely golden dreams
Of the Newcastle pow-wow?
Where are the Democratic plans,
The L. C. C.'s delight?
 All floated away on a flood of beer
Away—in the Ewigkeit![2]

East Norfolk Election.—When women are stoned by cowardly ruffians, of any party, or, more
probably, of no party, it is not a time for jokes. But Mr. Punch wishes he had been there, with
a few of his young men and a few revolvers, and then some persons more deserving to be
hit might have been hit, and with something sharper than stones. In East Norfolk, during the
excitement of an election, it is evidently almost as necessary to carry firearms for self-
defence as in any quite uncivilised and savage country—such as Bulgaria, under the
government of the brave Ferdinand.

METEOROLOGICAL MISGIVINGS.

Saturday.—How warm it is! Shall go for my holiday somewhere on the sea. A month's cruise
on the coast of Norway, perhaps.

Sunday.—What a tremendous gale! Imagine a month of this on the sea. Shall go inland, quite
in the country—say to a cottage on Dartmoor.

Monday.—What a dull day! Couldn't stand the country in this gloom. Try Paris.

Tuesday.—A glorious day. Very hot and sunny in Paris now. Shall go to the Lakes.

Wednesday.—Steady rain. Don't like the idea of the Lakes. Always damp and depressing. In
this sort of weather better be at Scarborough or Brighton.

Thursday.—Drizzle and mist. No doubt sea fog on coast. Hate sea fog. Better go to a dry
place abroad. How about North Italy?

Friday.—What beastly dust everywhere! No good going to a dry, sunny climate. Try Cornwall.

Saturday.—Damp, close day. Couldn't stand much of this. Too enervating. Shall go to the Alps
—anywhere up high in the mountain air.

Sunday.—Chilly for the time of year. Probably snowing on the Alps. Very dismal, cowering
over a stove in a Swiss inn. What a difficulty this holiday is! Good idea! Will postpone it till
the settled weather in the winter.

New adaptation of Ancient Chaff to the Defeated Candidates.—"Does your mother know you're
'Out'?" [N.B.—What view "mother" will take of it depends on "mother's" politics.]
 AFTER THE BATTLE.
THE MEETING OF WELLINGTON-S-L-SB-RY AND BLUCHER-CH-MB-RL-N.

TO JULIA, KNIGHT-ERRANT.

["After the noble lord's dinner-party, at which the ladies appeared in their cycling
costumes, consisting of ..., the company set off at half-past ten on their bikes for the
region between St Paul's and the Tower, where at that hour, except an occasional
policeman, hardly a soul is to be seen. Their example is now being generally imitated."
People of To-Day.]

When night her sable pall doth spread

Above the city's sleeping head
So as it seemeth to be dead;

And labour hath a short surcease,

And burglars taste a halcyon peace,
Save where the vigilant police,

All fearless on their darkling beat,

With sound of heavy-sandalled feet
Wake awesome echoes in the street;

When weary chapmen go their ways

To halls of song or sit at gaze
In front of elevating plays;
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