Halfway up Manor Road in Dorridge, Solihull, where the children play happily in the street and finches dance merrily in the breeze, there’s a tree that smells of wank. I’m getting increasingly grossed out by this. I always forget about it until I’m passing the church, at which point I either pick up the first traces or start to think ‘eew, here comes the wank’, which links unfortunately into memories of sitting in churches singing ‘cum-by-ah’ on school outings. The wanktree’s influence changes with weather conditions. Sometimes there’s a wanklike 50m stretch that’s not too great, but on other times I have to walk through a 10m Wank Central. That’s really bad, and crossing the road doesn’t help either.
I do have to wonder about the origins of this tree / bush / plant / invisible geyser. Perhaps, way back when Dorridge was but a hamlet containing only two blacksmiths and a minstrel, there was a furtive liaison on that patch of ground. Or maybe it’s a cunning genetic experiment by radical feminists with a male-involuntary-euthanasia agenda. Yum, berries. No need for men when you’ve got wanktree soup. Or, perhaps, there’s a race of horny pixies living in the sewers underneath Manor Road, and the tree is their ventilation system. Who can say.
Whatever the root cause, I hope it stops blooming soon. Maybe I should plant a rubber tree nearby, or talk to Kleenex R&D.