I believe that names are inherently important, in that most people having a child will spend a great deal of time and thought on naming. This is true to the extent that anyone saying ‘oh, just use any old name’ when registering a birth would be regarded as eccentric at best, and possibly dangerous. So, names are rarely given casually or thoughtlessly in real life. Somehow, I feel that throwing any old name at a character is a path to weakening the credibility of a story.

Then there’s the reality that some people are rarely called by their birth name as it doesn’t fit. This tells me the idea of names fitting characters matters to many people. I guess that’s one reason we have nicknames. One of my uncles was never referred to by his legal name outside legal contexts (house purchases etc.) Apparently, on first introduction, his grandmother declared his given name to be ill-fitting and called him something different. From that day on, the name his grandmother chose stuck. And it suited him.

As others have said, geography also matters. In many countries (certainly in the UK) there remain clear regional patterns to naming, so a name can hint at someone’s origins. I was always intrigued by a UK TV soap whose writers, it’s said, used to visit local graveyards to source regionally appropriate names. In some legal systems, of course, there are strict rules on what you can and cannot call a child.

Beyond all of that, a name can bring an exotic edge to a character without the need to be sidelined into detailed explanations of their background. The character of Dimitrios, for example, in Eric Ambler’s ‘The Mask of Dimitrios’, has a Greek-Russian name that tells you much of his origins in a single word.

Personally, though, I try not to fret too much about names, preferring to land on them mostly by instinct. So I’ll regularly change a character’s name when developing a story – not great, in that it leads to some painful editing. I often feel like a ghost when I’m writing: floating silently into a scene and trying to work out what’s going on. Part of that is working out what someone’s called. I’m not sure I always get it right. But that’s how it feels.

I have a love/hate relationship with working out. I hate going to the gym, and nobody needs to see my gym face, not even me (especially not me!). So I work out at home: no mirrors.

I hate much of the feeling as I’m working out, especially when the lactic acid hits and every fibre of my body is screaming at me to stop. But I love the afterglow and the impact on my health, physique and wellbeing. So I work out regularly.

I especially love working out, showering, then jumping in the hot tub. That feeling always makes the strain worthwhile.

A fine lass who liked an egg nog

Got drunk and fixed me in a snog

Her mouth: sweet and spicy

Did woo and entice me

And her stiff nipples left me agog

There can come a point in writing a story where I start to bore myself. I find it remarkable that I could plough on and churn out a story regardless, though I can’t imagine it would be worth reading. I’m sure many of us have a trail of unfinished stories in our wake that we’ve left alone because we find ourselves just going through the motions. Occasionally, I might go back and, on reading an abandoned tale, realise I’d missed the actual basis of the story, pick it up again with a new understanding, and produce something I think is worthy of putting out there (though what do I know?). But I’m never sure what’s lazy, dropping a story because I’m uninspired by it or ploughing on and trying to discover whether it has something. Sometimes, I think lazy and wasteful is good. Perhaps if I had less stamina for ploughing on through the doldrums of writing, my stories might be better.

While it’s cramped inside, crouched in the dark

She’s determined; this day, she will mark

With a jump, thong-clad Jack

Springs her box in attack

Kissing all, in her Boxing-Day lark

A lass with the surname of Tranter

Set her heart on a rough shag with Santa

It was heavily snowing

When she crouched down to blow him

And fell nude off her roof to her rancour

She lays mince pies on both her nipples

And her dimples hold various tipples

And would you believe

This nude’s forename is Eve

She gives Santa much more than his victuals

A tall girl who loved a big cock

Had a strange fetish for the church clock

There came a late hour

When she straddled that tower

And the vicar disgorged down his frock

A Lord who once lived on my block

Was a posh and imperious cock

But his Lady was fragrant

Her flirts became flagrant

So we let our amour run amok

There is a young woman called June

Whose boyfriend orgasms too soon

She’s barely turned on

When he lets off his gun

And she has to make do with a spoon

The was a man folks knew as ‘Stoker’

Who liked to play sexual poker

He’d call a girl’s bluff

And strip her to the buff

Till a strong-handed lass played her joker

When you wanted a date with young Lydia

If you stripped to the buff, she’d consider ya

She liked you in good nick

With a sizeable prick

And when both got a tick, she might bid on ya

🤣

Quote by MC1982

Some Siamese twins of Khartoum

Took two lesbians up to their room

But that unhappy three

Simply could not agree

Who'd put what into where and to whom

Mary, one of the McVickers

Lost interest in wearing her knickers

They’d get in the way

When she wanted to play

And after, they’d turn into stickers

It’s a true story too. I can’t post links but if you Google ‘Kirsty Buchan OnlyFans’ you should see it.

Quote by dlcalguy

The teacher went down on all fours

And seductively slipped off her drawers

The PTA was struck dumb

By the sight of her bum

Apart from the fathers' applause.

Bradley is one of those jocks

Who likes to fuck wearing his socks

But his socks are thick nylon

And spark like a pylon

Delivering copious shocks

There was a Scots teacher named Kirsty

Who liked to relax quite perversely

Her OnlyFans porn

Drew brickbats and scorn

And her bosses reacted adversely

A young man whose sexual gleanings

Had strong philosophical leanings

Made his girlfriend deplore

When he squealed, ‘less is more!’

And came fast, disregarding her feelings

A girlfriend once told me, ‘heads up!’

‘What you’re going to lick, you must fuck’

That was sweet to my ears

But it ended in tears

When I licked the ‘wrong’ hole and cocked-up

There lived a stressed-out dairy farmer

Whose new milkmaid was quite the charmer

When she’d pumped the herd dry

She’d catch him by the eye

Drain his balls, and leave him feeling calmer

There is a tall woman called Cat

Who carries not one ounce of fat

When stripped to the buff

Her voluminous muff

Protrudes like the brim of a hat

I knew an air ambulance doctor

Who’d fuck in her green rescue ‘copter

The blades still went round

As she shagged on the ground

And folks got in a spin as they clocked her

One Knight’s physique made him unable

To take his place at the round table

You see, Sir Everhard

By his own prick was barred

So his fate’s unrecorded by fable

I slept with a fit cook who gave me

A recipe for sexy gravy:

‘Stir my juice and your spunk,

With the end of your junk’

She ate well, but no portion she saved me

A man struck down by gonorrhoea

Told his girlfriend that he couldn’t see her

She quickly shot back

That he’d passed her the clap

And, with that, he was out on his ear

Come on dlcalguy, be fair

Innovation belongs everywhere

It’s established, for sure

That less can equal more

And the rhyming it does not impair

I’ve been experimenting with what I’m calling sawn-off limericks (not sure if there’s a proper name for this adaptation). I retain the AABBA rhyming structure but simplify the meter, starting with a single word (usually a name), then keeping all other lines as short as possible.

June

When you moon

I lie

Nearby

And spoon

Or to put it another way:

Nisha composed a rude Yuletide rhyme

Where Santa’s big sack gave her pleasure divine

But stuck in a thread

It’s largely unread

Not to share it more widely would be quite a crime

Brilliant! I think you should trouble the mods for sure. It deserves to be seen by more folk than will come across it here (pun intended).

There was no kinder girl than Belinda

She’d screwed every suitor on Tinder

When she wed, in a rush

The young vicar did blush

He recalled where she’d put that ring finger