‘Ooh! This is fucking filthy’ said Aggie – tit and fanny-naked. She peered intently at the rotten yellow Andrex that was clinging onto my bobble after she’d pulled my tripe sleeve down to my walnuts. I languished on a tea crate.
Following a quick splash of nail varnish remover on the gusset to dissolve all the crevice crust that bonded the nylon to her pubis, Kim slowly lowered her G-String. Coquettishly, she knelt down beside her elephantine co-host, her tongue dangling out of her mouth like a touched Spaniel. She froze with concentration, examining my blessed member as it become tumescent with desire. I closed my eyes.
‘Ooch, aye! Eets a reet farrking too-doo…’ she hissed through her pinched face. She put on her trademark white cotton gloves and after examining them briefly for signs of plops, nodded her head sharply. Her glasses jumped down the end of her wrinkled nose. Like dried tuna flakes, the wispy shreds of tissue danced on the end of my gentleman caller conducted by fetid breath.
A tongue flicked out and licked my Vader.
My eyes snapped open; I examined the pair for evidence of this supposed erotic indiscretion. Two faces, one huge, stared blankly at me. Their eyes dropped down to my shaft. I followed their gaze. One side of my liver hat was sparkling clean.
‘Which one can it be?’ asked Aggie, aggressively.
Kim said something but I couldn’t catch her hideous dialect, though I clearly heard the word ‘pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism’. The Scottish bitch.
Angry now, I lept to my feet accidentally/deliberately clocking Kim round the face with my boiling woody. Her reaction was decisive, like a switch being flicked she let out a hideous moan. According to Peter Akroyd (who was masturbating gently behind an old oil-filled radiator) it was reminiscent of the ancient Picts. He then done a wee wee all over the floor of his garage.
I looked at Aggie, touching herself now she let out a long mournful fart and wafted the odour towards her fastidious nose. Kim lay down as if commanded by Phil Drabble himself and curled into a ball whilst softly singing Pop Will Eat Itself’s ‘Can You Dig It’.
Aggie needed no further cue. She parted the sides of her behemoth white crack and a veritable bag of angry-red haemorrhoids dropped out like awful cherry tomatoes. She squatted over Ackroyd’s tinkle, coated her piles in the piss with a ham-like hand and screamed ‘Alan Moore, knows the score!’. And had a mild heart attack.
Kim burst into tears, Akroyd spontaneously issued and I was violently sick.
Frankly, I couldn’t believe my luck.