Holy rollers

I didn’t mean to jump your bones
at such a tragic hour,
but I think it was the grief
that led my bee to your flower.

Through tears I looked you up and down,
as the coffin was interred,
and I felt the grief migrating south,
I was well and truly stirred.

Hot sex at the funeral.
What a way to behave!
Rumpy-pumpy at the funeral,
sweet love by the grave.

The mourners sang hymn 2-5-4
to the organ’s plaintive sound,
our organs made their own sweet song
as they began to pound.

I heard the vicar mumbling,
I think he mentioned dust.
But the only sound that I could hear
was the sermon of our lust.

Hot sex at the funeral.
What a way to behave!
A roll-around on holy ground,
sweet love by the grave.

For hours we frotted merrily,
in a blur of shafts and flaps.
In the nave, the chancel, the sanctuary,
I even took you up the apse.

But, perhaps it was a bad idea,
that I gave the eulogy,
in front of the gathered mourners as
you gave head to me.

Hot sex at the funeral.
What a way to behave!
How’s-your-father at the funeral,
beside your father’s grave.

Getting to know…

…Billy Turnips

Billy ‘Bastard’ Turnips shot to fame in 1976 after winning TV talent contest New Faces as the ‘Pogoing Painter’. Following several years enjoying the trappings of overnight fame, Billy hit the skids and went through a number of reinventions including the ‘Pogoing Window Cleaner’ and the ‘Pogoing Window Breaker’ before finally carving out a niche as the country’s first and only ‘Painted Pogoing Lollypop Man’. He lives in Basingstoke with his 97 year old mother, Tilly Turnips, and his autistic cockapoodle, Monbodison.

Who or what is the greatest love of your life?
Me first wife, Pricilla. She was an amazing women, tits that could stop a train. The Acker Bilk of the pink oboe, they used to call her. Although – and this is between you and me – Acker Bilk was actually better at blowjobs. I should know.

What word or phrase do you overuse?
‘Fancy a bath?’

What is your most treasured possession?
An original draft manuscript of Shakespeare’s The Tempest from 1609. It contains a song, removed from the final version of the play, performed by Caliban which goes ‘We art voyaging to Ibitha, Return’ed to th’island, We are art voyaging to Ibitha, ‘Tis our entent to stage a masquerade’. Of course, almost 400 years later, The Venga Boys picked it up and had a lot of success with it. Dutch arseholes. Which, incidentally, is the medical condition fucking ruining me sleep at the moment.

What is your biggest regret?
Failing medical school because I refused to get off me pogo stick.

Tell us a secret
If I clap 100 times very quickly a quid falls out me arse.

Stupid punt

I’ve started up a lazy gentleman’s outfitters. It’s called Suit Yourself.

The heating’s on the blink at my masturbation stronghold. On the plus side it’s cheap. That’s cold cum fort.

I once worked as a grave digger for a milliner who really hated me. During a funeral for a stetson I stopped digging and said “look I really think we should clear the air, let bygones be bygones….”. She shouted “just bury the hat, shit”. I said “Exactly!”

Our lawn is really long and an obese Satan got stuck in our cat flap. “What do you want to do?” my partner asked. I hate gardening and like to deal with unusual mishaps, so I just shrugged and said “butter the devil. You mow”.

My best mate’s a shell. He refused to fight in the second world war but also came up with a lot of really good ideas for stopping wars altogether. That’s what I like about Conch, he ain’t just ‘objector’.

Bloke asked me if I wanted to join a group who drink tepid Darjeeling in a room full of calculators. I said “Is that ok?”, he said “yeah, safe tea in numbers”.

A Welsh General threatened me this morning. I said, “oh yeah, Euan Hughes’ army”.

Someone asked me the other day, “what did you use to transport the money to pay off that toupe debt to Dame Mirran?”. I said “Wig owing to Helen? A hand cart.”

I was queuing behind a sausage in Costa the other day. He went for a grande cappucino. When it comes to coffee I guess the weiner takes it tall.

Science Fiction story

“I can’t believe it’s the year 2087” said Cheng Shakespeare, in a state of disbelief. Behind him a man with a cybernetic eye fed some bitcoins into a levitating vending drone.

Cheng watched a Skybus glide vertically upwards and zoom off above the towering skyscrapers of this moribund synthetic metropolis, making a noise like a synthesiser with an ‘insect’ setting. It was night time, and also really smoggy and raining hard and generally quite depressing in a brutalist post-industrial kind of way but with hover cars.

No-one seemed to have gardens any more. The rampant clamour for dwellings had gobbled up green space as human populations exploded like a protracted number bomb. Since the early twentieth century humanity had been breeding at an unsustainably exponential rate, without so much as a telepathically transferred thought for where it was going to bloody well put itself. A telepathically transferred thought humanity could have had, thanks to Amstrad’s patent Brain-to-Brain Interface of 2019.

“You what?!” returned Quasar O’Doherty, somewhat incredulously. Behind him a holographic prostitute was doing her darndest to solicit the custom of a silver-skinned man with self-tailoring clothes.

“What do you mean ‘what?!’?!” Cheng fired back. But before the two men could resolve their frankly aimless exchange, a thunderous bang shook the Lower Twelfth Precinct, which quickly filled with billowing clouds of debris and smoke. The unmistakable sight of two AI Militia materialised from the swirling grey haze, their machine-like gait and USBs-for-bollocks the only subtle signs betraying the inorganic identities of these cybernetic simulcras.

“Shit! Download the Police!” Quasar bellowed, reaching for his iPenis. After just a few seconds of frenzied tapping on his wi-fi enabled nob module, a bank of lasers shot out from the Police headquarters several miles away and 3D-printed a Lawbot on the street in front of the insurgents.

Shakespeare and Quasar flagged down a hovercab which whisked them up through the neon-lit troposphere to a cruising altitude of 4 clicks, and away from danger. From up here civilisation was little more than an ugly inorganic sprawl, neon-lit, rain-soaked and with lots of steam rising from it (at night).

Safely back at Residential Quarter #7569, the two companions took the stairs to the anti-gravity roof restaurant. Quasar ordered the pulled-thylacine sandwich, whilst Chang opted for the banoffee pie via neural upload. Both men had electromagnetic coffee delivered through foot plates underneath the table.

“Well, can you believe it’s the year 2087 now, Cheng Shakespeare?’ Quasar enquired sardonically.

“Yes. Yes I can, Quasar O’Doherty. What with everything that’s just happened, I damn fucking well can”. Both men laughed heartily, before retiring to sit in a dark room for several hours, since the imperative for sleep had been neuro-engineered away, yet people still liked to observe the now antiquated tradition of doing fuck all over night from about 11 until about seven or eightish in the morning.

Getting to know…

…Richard Littlejohn

Richard Robin Marion Littlejohn was born several times throughout the 1950s in Harlem. After a disturbed childhood which saw him go in and out of several mothers, he was eventually declared permanently medically born at the age of 7. Littlejohn took up armed struggle at the age of 17, although he himself admits it remains unclear as to what the cause was. He lives in Surrey with his wife Alhambra Gerrymatticock and his two spaniels, Left Testicle and Right Testicle.

When were you happiest?
Yesterday. Mum had just called me in from playing Kerbie with Nick Ferarri. I had my favourite A Team t shirt on and we had sausage and ice cream for tea.

What keeps you up at night?
Mildly racist aural hallucinations. I have one recurring voice who I call Tony Abattoir – he keeps banging on about how black families don’t recycle enough and how manspreading indians take up more than 50% of bus seats.

What’s your most treasured possession?
A jar of fat I found in a derelect windmill. Another of my aural hallucinations – Sir Teddy History – tells me it’s from Cher’s eighth liposuction. My counsellor nodded and said ‘interesting’ when I told her which I took to signal agreement.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
My smell. I’m told it’s like a mixture of burnng tyres and toddler poo. I’d quite like to smell like a Happy Meal. Or a box of Smyth & Quiggley offal chocolates. My grandad’s favourite (which I never was).

What’s your favourite word?
Floggnocificulism. It means to simultaneously fart and burp with such force as to bring about instantaneous spiritual awakening. I strive for it every day of my life. I often joke about my £10 a day Coke habit!

How would you like to be remembered?
As a fifth-rate, bigotted hate-pedaling hack, whose lack of journalistic talent was almost as offensive as the dog ordure he smeared across his columns.

Wet Lace

Her shiny shins gleamed in the lascivious flicker of the candle. Pam had waxed all traces of hair from every bit of her yearning feminine body in preparation for Jim’s visit. Including, whilst absent-mindedly agonising over when exactly blue cheese is unfit for consumption, her eyebrows.

“I like a naked flame” cooed Jim, but not like a dove, like a man paving the way for genital coupling.

“I adore candle light” Pam trilled, but not like a budgie, like a woman inviting a man to persist in paving the way for genital coupling. “There’s just something so…” she searched for the right word, performing an inadvertant little royal wave with her hand as she did so. “…thrilling about striking a match. Grasping the shaft and making it’s little pink head explode with a quick flick of my fingers”.

“Matches” Jim returned, confusingly, too distracted by an overwhelming surge through his groin. A sex storm which shorted his mental processes, like a sort of erotic stroke. A dribbling dog with biscuit balanced on his nose, Jim trembled with a beautiful agony awaiting the command. And Pam ALWAYS issued a command.

“That smell” Jim said through knitted brow, as he tried to place the exotic scent that hung, like like an invisible odour, or an atmospheric flavour, or a mysterious nasal language, in the air.

“You like it? That’s the candle, bought it today. Prosecco and oysters. David Hasselhoff’s new Hoffrodesiac range at Matalan”.

“Yes, I was wondering why I’d been thinking about the harbour at Whitstable. I like it. They do some fantastic ranges there. Tom Kerridge’s Stinking Bishop Bath Moose is divine. Extremely relaxing and goes great with a glass of red, if you’re an ablution boozer that is!”.

Pam poured Jim a disaronno and Sprite, and sashayed over to the bed to hand it to him. Without warning, she felt an urgent pressure in her colon. With only a split second to settle on a gambit to mask the loud fart that this substantial bubble of feculent tummy gas would inevitably produce, Pam slammed Jim’s drink at the wall, inches from his head. On the plus side the impact and the smashing glass more than covered her bassy bum beefbelch.

“PAM! You’re god damn crazy, woman. Come here you unhinged mare”. Jim pulled Pam onto the bed, and kissed her fulsomely, like a starving man trying to eat an orange through a letterbox. Pam swung her leg over Jim and, in one smooth movement, subsumed his cock into her knicker-mouth.

“Ride me like a rodeo bull, you sexy little cowgirl”.

“Sink your pink in my pocket, you filthy little snookerboy”.

Pam and Jim committed coitus for 7 hours and twenty three minutes, pausing only three times; for the pizza delivery, severe cramp and because Jim thought he could hear a ghost.

The World of FMM

The other week I went to a big event, it was called #FMM16 – the Fat Masturbating Men conference 2016. The Birmingham NEC was packed with hundreds of fat men masturbating, I gave up counting at 756, although that was barely half. Not to mention the legions of officianados and collectors of fat masturbating men.

I spoke to a few of the fat masturbating men. Some of them had always wanted to be a fat masturbating man, others just kind of fell into it.

One guy, called Gary, said he’d known all his life that he wanted to be an FMM, which is the term they use. “I was a skinny kid” he panted at me over coffee “but hard work and competitive eating saw me through”.

Another chap, Terry from Hartlepool, had a very different story. “I never saw myself as a fat masturbating man” he told me in the queue for the keynote speech. His voice was shaky, breathy, because we struck up conversation just before he hit the vinegar strokes. “I’m an architect by trade. This is just something I’m doing for a while. For the money mainly. I hope to go back to architecure in a year or so”.

The Fat Masturbating Men expo started at around 10am. By midday the Birmingham NEC was almost unnavigable. The exhibition space was becoming unhygienic and beginning to turn stomachs. Hardly anyone touched the buffet. Except the fat masturbating men. They all grabbed handfuls of it. Whilst masturbating.

The auction was a great success though. One fat masturbating man from Rochdale went for £17,500. I was outbid on a giant, red haired Welsh wanker. To be honest I only really bid on him because I liked his hat.

After the conference had ended I shared a taxi back to the station
with one of the fat masturbating men. He wasn’t masturbating anymore. We chatted awkwardly about the expo, although he seemed reluctant to discuss the fat masturbating man world. “I’m not as into it as some of the other blokes” he said. “Perhaps that’s why you didn’t sell at the auction!” I tried to joke, but it fell flat. He glowered at me like I’d just farted into his biscuit jar.

I don’t reckon I’ll go next year. I mean, it looked really interesting on the advert, but if anything I found it all a bit disgusting.