Pornographic soundtracks and quiet sundays

I know, it seems strange, but read on and all will become clear.

On my quiet stroll along the Parade this afternoon, as I went to buy some groceries, I noticed an unusual amount of brightly coloured condoms shining in the setting sunlight. There were only three colours, red, white and blue, so there may have been some lucky Europeans on the streets last night.

And they weren't just on the streets, either, let me tell you. My crazy new neighbours had a porn soundtrack all of their very own. It beat the television, the stereo, and possibly even the sound barrier. I can honestly say that I have never heard anything like it - some of those sounds weren't even human, imho. In fact, I was laying (p.t.p.) bets in my mind that at one point they were using a ping pong bat, but I'm just guessing. I'll tell you something else, too, I don't think the girlfriend was being entirely authentic, either. So the Sound of Sex Emmy is definitely hers.

When I went out this afternoon, I heard the Crazy Sex Neighbours coming up the stairs (that was definitely real) and I had to run back up the stairs and hide in my flat until they had gone indoors. I cannot face them now. I have a terrible feeling that my face will obviously be saying: I heard you guys having unbelievable sex last night - and when I say unbelievable, I actually mean it literally - and now I feel awkward about it and I can't look at either of you without laughing, or pretending to play ping pong.

Actually, I'm not sure what that expression would look like, but any artists amongst you are welcome to try it. Email me with your entries (ptp) and I'll post the best of them.

You know what struck me as the most strange (you mean you haven't told us already Sarah?) about the whole 'God, yes! Oh yes! Oh God! Please! Yes!' saga of last night? It went on for bloody hours. In the end, I had my mp3 player on and was sat up chain-smoking and reading a short story collection by Dashiel Hammett - God that man was talented. Hammett, not the NSN Noisy Sex Neighbour, I mean. By 3 o'clock, I was convinced that the whole thing was some kind of scam to convince the household that they have this amazing sex life, and that actually they were both sat on opposite sides of the room, fully clothed and making these ridiculous noises whilst reading Chekhov (no, I'm not sure which particular work). It was that unconvincing.

But just imagine if they were both faking it? Wouldn't that take this superficial century to a whole new level?

Anyway, I'm sure you've heard enough about it (probably by the end of paragraph one actually), so let's make like Walrus (should that be Walri?) and talk of other things.

Any lovers of the postcard out there should check out a company called Polite Cards, who have recently introduced themselves to me on MySpace. Featuring the work of Vic Reeves and Stella Vine (who was recently featured in Saatchi's New Blood), to name but my favourite of their contributors (thanks also to them for putting me onto the fact that VR has his own MS site), these postcards are well worth treating yourself to, though you'll probably never want to send them.

Even better, the only stockist in Portsmouth of Polite products is the Aspex Gallery, so if you still haven't got down to this brilliant new venue in Gunwharf, go there now. Right now. Only if it's open though, or you'll feel reet foolish.