Found this today whilst surfing for Dogging
“Even if I live to be a million there are certain things I shall never understand.
To name but a few in no particular order; quadratic equations, quantum physics, the Eurozone crisis, Christopher Biggins, Desperate Scousewives, the Hadron Collider, hip hop, high heels, the “comedy” of Noel Fielding and now, in a recent addition to the list, dogging.
For those of you meek and mild souls who don’t know what I’m talking about and blush at themes of an adult nature, now may be a good time to stop reading and go and put the kettle on.
There’s probably a Flashback feature on page 37 that will keep you occupied for the next half hour.
Still here? Right, turn off your engine, flash your lights and we’ll crack on.
In recent weeks the Mail has carried a number of stories about some very strange folk engaging in certain types of “lewd activity” in lay-bys off the A165, close to Skirlaugh and Coniston.
There, it transpires, people have been meeting up to engage in illicit rumpy pumpy with strangers – or dogging as it’s known.
Why it’s called dogging I have no idea. Maybe it’s because the chances of you catching fleas while you’re out doing it is fair to middling.
From what I can tell from Google, without getting sacked for misuse of the company computer, it all revolves around turning up in a remote beauty spot and sending various coded messages to the assistant bank managers and off- duty judges hiding in the bushes.
Once parked up you attract attention by flashing your Nissan Cherry’s fog lamps, swishing your wipers and winding your windows up and down like a demented bridge toll booth operator.
I’ll never know, but I suspect what follows makes Emmanuelle look like Bob The Builder.
I’m all for freedom of expression. One man’s meat is another man’s poison and all that.
I mean, I don’t dress up in women’s underwear, change my name to Shirley and ask to be suspended from the ceiling every Tuesday night, but that doesn’t mean some of you out there don’t enjoy it.
Who am I to judge?
My rule of thumb is; as long as it’s not hurting anybody, it’s between consenting adults and it doesn’t scare – or involve – the horses, I can’t see the problem.
But in this case, I honestly don’t see the attraction.
I find it hard enough to generate the energy for such things in the privacy of my own house, never mind in temperatures of -5°C while trying to avoid standing in something icky.
Who feels compelled to drive out into the middle of nowhere only to discover that builder’s merchant Frank and his cellulite-riddled wife (and mum-of-seven) Sandra have been using pictures of Brad and Angelina on their website?
Honestly, if the only way you can get any is under the cover of darkness in a Holderness field then I’m pretty sure you’re unlikely to be a genuine contender for America’s Next Top Model.
If I’d pulled into a lay-by to have a picnic with my kids I might be more than a little put out to find some saggy old numpty called Jeff wandering around au naturel with a lascivious grin on his face.
And if I lived opposite such a site I’d probably be more than a little dischuffed about a bunch of weirdos banging their car doors and flashing their lights all night while I’m trying to watch Midsomer Murders.
Of course, I never stop in lay-bys for picnics – and I don’t know anybody who does.
Anybody whose idea of an exciting family day out is eating pack-up by the A165 deserves all they get.
For as long as I’ve lived in Hull there have been nudge nudge, wink wink stories about what goes on at Hessle Foreshore and various country lanes after dark.
And as long as it really is in the middle of nowhere and not outside someone’s conservatory, I’m relaxed enough to think the police have more pressing demands on their time than hunting down a few thrill-seeking perverts.
So doggers, I may never understand you, or remotely be titillated by what you do, but use a bit of nous and stay away from those who’ll find your activities offensive – and I suspect the rest of us will continue to turn a blind eye. You weirdos.”