'Where can I find vacuum cleaner sex?'

Dear reader in Germany. Yes, you, who typed the above urgent question.

Naturally, the answer brought you to grit's day. To the seductive charms of her Hoover, Dyson, and the One with no name.

Before we begin the sexy photo tour, I should tell you, that for myself, I do not yearn for my pornographic vacuum cleaners. I plan no dalliance with any of them. In fact, in confidence, I hate them. I hate them with my woman's vengeance. The sort she reserves for domestic equipments that may have been designed by a man who wants them for sex, because they are no sodding use for sucking up carpet fluff. (Or, in my household, several strata of craft debris.)

But it is worse. I have a cruel and bitter streak at the heart of my nature, and I want to make my vacuum cleaners suffer for the pain they have given my spirit.

In fact, let me pause, while I go back to their prison at the top of the stairs and give them a good kicking.

See? Sex and violence at grit's day.

But why, Grit, do you not love your sexy vacuum cleaners?

Because, regarding actual sucking up of carpet debris, of craft peelings, of anything, they are unfit. More than unfit. Totally sodding useless. I have dumped them here, on the landing, in the bit that no-one ever knows what to do with, where we pile up books, shoes, and now, the non-functioning vacuum cleaner collection. It is a hall of shame, literally.

Let us explore the goods.

There. That is the sodding Dyson, skulking behind the banister. I hate the bastard. It weighs more than I do, inevitably smashes into the wall every time I try and pick it up, and it doesn't suck. A bit broke off four years ago which I failed to glue back on with Hard as Nails. It now dangles, uselessly. Oh, my pain! The Dyson only works if I grovel on hands and knees, hold the broken flexible end at right angles to the floor, and plead. Then it manages a teensy weensy bit of a pathetic suck. When I turn it off in despair, it vomits.

Or you could try the Hoover?

Turn this on, and it roars like a jet engine. That is all.

The One with no name! Probably a ripped-off design screwed together in a manufacturing unit in Shenzhen.

But oh, how I once adored it! Lightweight, and I could swing it round corners, it was my favourite! Working hard, loyally, for at least eighteen months, happily and powerfully sucking up everything it could find, only narrowly missing the hamster, but always ready, always on duty! I thought it would last forever!

You can start this up. It will get all hot, before inexplicably shutting down and refusing to start again. It promises much, yet delivers nothing. All is ash and dust. Old age is a terrible thing.

Dear reader in Germany, if you are desperately searching for sexy vacuum cleaners, then here, take mine. I shall pimp this sorry brigade for your pleasure.

Take them all. Explore their vulnerabilities, which now are many. Crush them to your command. It will be easy. And when you have finished, take them properly, where they belong, to the vacuum cleaner disassembly pile. Please. It would save me the journey.