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‘My hair is covered in gold you know,’ she said.
I wasn’t really listening. The advert had said ‘blond, legged divorcée seeks toy-boy for good times, must not like the Beatles’ but I didn’t think it would be her. When she had walked into the bar I thought she must have been lost or something.
She was wearing giant sunglasses to cover up her face, but she needn’t have bothered. It was a Tuesday evening in All-Bar-One (her choice) in Islington so it wasn’t very busy.
‘Real gold,’ she said.
She had mistaken my mind wondering as a lack of interest. The whole situation seemed a bit strange.
‘So are you new to the dating scene?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I split up with that BASTARD’ her loud voice caught the attention of the pimply teenager behind the bar ‘and now I’m single.’
She lifted her handbag onto the bar.
‘That’s made from whale foreskins.’ She said pointing at it ‘Rare whales, and they throw the rest away after the have chopped it of as it is no good to them.’
I didn’t know what to say so I asked her if she wanted another drink
‘Yes, something classy please like a babysham or a white wine spritzer with lemonade. I’m classy me.’
Before I could reply she continued
‘Which isn’t to say I’m not true to my roots, yeah I’m keeping it real.’
She clicked her fingers and I tried not to notice how the nails seemed to be covered with real leopard skin.
It was going to be a long night so I ordered a double whiskey, when I brought the drinks back she downed her babysham in a single gulp.
‘He hit me you know?’
I gazed at her blankly.
‘Yeah, he was a cruel bastard. Want to fuck?’
I spluttered through my drink.
‘I’ve got something I want you to see.’
With that she grabbed my hand and pulled me into a cab, minutes later we were in a hotel room. The entire journey had been spent in silence. Once inside she dimmed the lights and went into the toilet. I looked around the room, she had hired a deluxe suite from Travel Lodge, so I couldn’t help but be impressed. The tea making facilities were extraordinary.
She emerged from the bathroom entirely naked. I had been busying myself by making a hot Bovril.
Her skin glistened in the light, sparkling faintly.
‘Diamonds.’ She said. ‘I’m covered in diamonds, it was a treat to myself after the divorce.’
She twisted her body slightly and I could see them sparkle in the light. Her body was studded with tiny gems in a regular pattern.
‘I’ve had me pubes done too.’ She pointed at a little triangle of fur ’24 caret white gold, it’s dead classy innit?’
I sipped my Bovril.
‘My shitter is lined with rubies you know’
Again I didn’t know what to say. She turned around and winked her rectum at me. It sparked red in the bright strip lights of the travel-lodge like a demon’s eye.
She pointed at the kettle.
‘Get a brew on, and then you can spaff on my tits’
I was awoken by the squawking of what sounded like a titted cockerel. I was in an alien bed – all pink, tattered sheets and a horrific, fudge-spattered duvet.
‘GOOD MORNING! AND WELCOME TO BBC LONDON!’ squealed the wrinkled sack of woman before my bleary eyes. That harridan before me – it could only be the disastrous result of an owl and sow cross-breeding? Surely?
As my vision returned the nightmare unfolded – I realised I’d gone and done it again. After a night in the bins outside Blockbuster drinking swarfega with the man from the Job Centre, I’d allowed myself to be seduced by the passing Vanessa Feltz. Again.
And there she was, wide awake and rampant in front of me, dressed only in yesterday’s brassiere and sitting cross-legged and bottomless on the bed, before me. That’s right – ‘bottomless’. The bottom of half of her was bereft of any protective clothing-shield. All manner of stench was emenating from her entrances and exits. I whiffed cat-food. I inhaled traces of sulphurous egg yolks. Most prominently, the reek of rotting ham drizzled into my nostrils.
‘Oh shit’ I mumbled. ‘Morning Vanessa. Couldn’t trouble you for a cup of tea, could I?’
‘THIS MORNING WE’LL BE DISCUSSING AWFUL LITTLE SHITBAGS WHO COME TO MY HOUSE AND ARE UNABLE TO PERFORM WHEN MY TOYBOY’S AWAY!’ she blathered on. ‘WE WANT TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK WE SHOULD DO ABOUT THESE PEOPLE…?’
She looked at me with imploring eyes, as though I should answer her query. I was too distracted as I had noticed one of her leathery, care-worn nips had begun snuffling around the rim of her bra wiring, before popping itself over the lacey edge. Her teats were moving around like small, rose-tinted badger-snouts, completely independent of the rest of her body.
‘Make them a cup of tea and put a bath on for them…?’ I feebly half-answered.
‘WRONG!’ she shouted, full of shit and vim. ‘WE HAVE TO PUT THEM IN DETENTION!’ she cawed, ramming her crooked fingers in her wanny and snuffling that pig-snout into a crinkled bridge.
She began to draw her cruft into a cavernous trench, big enough to fit three fists, before she bounced up on obese calves, her varicose veins so swollen they were in danger of popping. She positioned herself over my hungover form and before I knew it, my entire cranium was enveloped within a Feltz-clamp. Horrified and miffed, I staggered to my feet with her thighs clamped around my collar whilst screaming ‘Hey, you! That’s not on!’
I was The Man In The Vanessa Mask, and I wasn’t happy.
From within her gigantic vagina all I could hear was the muffled sound of cackling as she rode my head for all it was worth, grinding away like some terrible buffing wheel until I collapsed under the weight of her dimpled cheeks and brought us both to the floor. Upon landing, a gallon of canal-sap glugged from within her, covering my face, ears and chin in a coating of Feltz-treacle. Eventually it solidified, forming a pillow against my cheek.
I slept, dear reader, within her abdomen and dreamed of the good old days, before Vanessa, before Trisha, when Kilroy was the main man. I recalled the time when it was possible to get brewers droop in front of a breakfast radio presenter without being throttled by her grunt. And I wept.
Oh! How I wept.
‘Christ almighty, Coltrane!’ I shouted at Robbie Coltrane’s buttocks. ‘I’ve been sucking fizzy jism out o’ these pipes for two hours! I can’t ‘ave emptied that much up there, can I? CAN I?’
He farted black spunk all over my face. This was unacceptable.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t have agreed to do this if I’d been forewarned about the diarrhoea. And you can stop emptying it down my gullet while you’re about it. I didn’t give you permission to shit in my face, you fat Scotch baboon.’
He grunted, then smeared his sweating, fetid anus across my nose. A fleck found it’s way up my left nostril.
‘That’s right! Shift the blame on me, you filthy elephant! How would you like to guzzle down two and a half gallons of man-butter mixed with bowel-batter, eh? You could wave goodbye to that acting career of yours for a start … I’ve probably got typhus now …’
He gave me the thumbs up. I shuddered. The big bugger was ready for another load.
‘Will you hold still sir!’ I roared. I’d bloated up my unwilling member using a contraption I’d cobbled together from an old bicycle pump and a wide-bore cannula. This was the only way I could keep it hard enough to get past those massive buttocks.
Heaving to, I gave him both barrels up the man-chute. He made a sighing noise as I pulled out for the thirtieth time that day. I sank to my knees, furious.
‘Right. This time I want none of last night’s Chicken Tikka Masala. Agreed?’
Coltrane rumbled, then shit sixty five litres straight down my throat.
I was dressed from head to foot in a schoolgirl’s outfit, in a broom cupboard located beside Chris Evan’s Radio 2 studio. It was pitch black and my scrotum was straining against the tiny thong Chris had supplied. Each nut itched with the intensity of a scabied perineum.
He’d insisted I should hide in this alcove whilst he chatted with his pal, Vernon Kaye about Lego and other connectable toys in the next room. I’d been busting for a turd for the past thirty minutes and was almost beyond the point of no return. I pulled the door ajar to see if I could catch his attention and to check if the way was clear for me to hot foot it to the bogs before Dermot O-Leary could catch sight of me. As I peered beyond the door-crack, Evans clocked and scolded me.
‘Get BACK, you bitch-twit’ he hissed as he drank me in, an absolutely tiny tent peg evolving in his grundies. Then he got back to chatting with Vern about Meccano as he scratched his arsehole.
Back in the darkness of the dusty cupboard, I could bear it no longer and pushed a foot-long subway on rye from my winking fart-pellet. It scuffed the side of the G-String I’d been forced to wear. There was no time to worry about the inevitable, acrid-yellowy stain that would form as this mammoth soft-brick headed downwards. I realised I had no choice but to catch it before it landed on the floor, so I squatted like a frenzied wicket-keeper, catching my own grumbling gum-cheese in my hands before it could hit the ground, running. With the texture of aged Philadelphia, it was a sticky blob rather than a controllable sausage and I fought to keep it gripped. As I wrestled with the twelve-inch shit, The door opened wide and as the light blasted me from outside, the silhouette of Evan’s naked form stood before me.
He wore only his trademark, black-rimmed spectacles – but three pairs of the fuckers. One covered his eyes, as was his wont. A second set, huge and chest-wide, sat astride his chest, making eyes of his enormous nipples. The teat of each seemed to blink as I looked up at them. Finally, a smaller pair of looking-glasses covered his not inconsiderable testicles. The ballbag was bright red and the form of each nut was clearly cube-like behind those bollock-bins.
‘Ooooh! I see you’ve done me a little bum-gift!’ he chirped, delving his hands into the grotty faeces I cradled, baby-like in my arms. He then set about smearing his wrists, neck and face with the chod, gurning like Wilfred Bramble on high-grade MDMA as he jumped from foot-to-foot shouting ‘GABY ROSLIN! GABY ROSLIN’ parrot-like and with all the breath he could muster.
‘GABY ROSLIN? GABY ROSLIN!’ he shrieked in a weird question and answer session with himself.
When he’d calmed down, we did a bit of a wank then watched 60-Minute Makeover whilst cutting our toenails, all nude and smiling. It was unarguably the best day of my life.
‘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.
‘It’s fantastic Brian!’ I ejaculated. Not from my winkle – that would come much later.
‘I’m, so glad you like it’ replied the country’s number one axeman, guitar supremo Brian May.
‘Like it? I’m in awe! Such girth. Such weight… such unparalleled density’ I drooled as Brian’s sequinned slacks lay about his ankles, a pair of tatty briefs atop them, yellowed by time and streaked with the stains of sweaty nights grinding at his instrument for the remaining troupe of Queen fanatics.
‘Y’know, Anita always says it’s all in the curl’ he sighed. He was referring to his beautiful wife, ex-soap queen Anita Dobson. Word on the street was that she also possessed a bouffant pubis of similar character. Jesus wept – a stylist must’ve been at it for days. Deep within the fronds, rubies from every continent glittered alongside the ringlet groove of his elaborate willy-bush.
‘Well the curve here’s nigh on perfect’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s the most elaborate cock-shrub I’ve seen. I think I can say that without reserve. It’s only a shame we can’t see the goods beneath it… Come on Bri! Show us what you’re made of! Unravel your fretboard for the crowd!’
Patrick Moore and I were sitting on the chaise-longue, naked as the day we were born and lathered liberally in fuck juice from a previous session. Brian had just come backstage after a barn-storming set playing to literally tens of middle-aged men, alongside the knackered-looking Roger Taylor and that bloke who used to sing on the Wrigley’s advert. And the bass player whose name always escapes me.
Brian gave me a sly wink before fishing around in the area of his mons venus. He located the pink-ribbon and as he began to unravel it, he oscillated it in a crazy manner, his scalp-mop fluttering around his brow as he gained an erection.
‘What a wonderful tattoo’ I gasped, as he stopped the motion and his four and a half inch weapon stood proudly before my waiting face. ‘Is it a dinkle-tache?’
‘Oh, you noticed. I’m so pleased. Yes. It’s a penis-moustache, forever inked on my tinkerbell in memory of poor, dear departed Freddy’
I rapidly pulled a sheath over my entire head before draining that ridiculous penis of all it had, while Patrick Moore tickled my bumhole and muttered celestial data.
I was shocked on the night of the performance, I can tell you. I had knocked on his dressing room door to tell him there was an hour before the curtain up, and was sure I could hear someone gently weeping. I opened the door and saw John sitting at his dressing table wearing a dressing gown and doing terrible punishment to a bottle of Drambuie. He looked up at me with swollen, tear-filled eyes and tried feebly to smile.
‘What’s the matter Mr. Noakes?’ I asked. I must admit the sight of one of my idols crying into a bottle (and his bottle was definitely half empty) disturbed me greatly.
‘Oh nothing…nothing, here sit down,’ replied John, wiping his tears on the back of his towelled sleeve. He patted a stool next to his.
I sat down.
After a long silence he turned to me, a far away look in his eyes. “Love’s a funny thing, isn’t it son?” He took another pull on the Drambuie, spilling some of it down his chin where it dripped forlornly into the folds of his gown.
Being eighteen years old I knew nothing of love. The nearest I’d got to love with a woman was pulling myself off over picture stories from my little sister’s Jackie comics.
‘Love son, love…it’s a funny thing,’ he burped. Snot dribbled down his top lip and he sucked it up absent-mindedly.
I thought about this for a while. I was sure that it was, but I also felt sure that his statement required a certain answer…I didn’t want to set him off crying again and he’d be up in front of the Queen in just over an hour.
‘I suppose it is Mr. Noakes, I wouldn’t really know.’ I couldn’t help looking round at the door, my illusion of John’s hard-man image was falling apart. They say that you should never meet your heroes.
‘Take Valerie Singleton. I…I loved her for years lad, years…and I never told her.’ He made a sound somewhere between a sniff, a sob and a belch and closed his eyes.
‘Oh’ I said.
‘Never told her…never fucking told her. Couldn’t you see, she wouldn’t look at me…wouldn’t fucking look at a p-poor northern boy like me!’
He brought his bottle angrily up to his mouth and, unaware that he’d just smashed one of his front teeth out, took another pull of Drambuie (and blood). I was now desperate; I didn’t want to be there anymore.
‘Shep loved me!’ He wailed.
Oh shit, he’s brought the fucking dog up. Again.
‘And I loved Shep!’ He was starting to shout. I suddenly noticed that in his drunken state his dressing gown was falling open. I noticed his nipples. Christ they were hairy. And it wasn’t human hair.
‘Fucking hell John!’ I rasped, ‘what the fuck happened to your nipples?’
But John didn’t hear. He swayed to his feet, the cord on his dressing gown becoming worryingly loose.
‘I never fucking told her! I never told her and thought I’d never have her…but Jesus Christ son, she’s just telegrammed me.’
He shoved a tear-stained telegram in my face. I read it.
To cut a long story short it seemed that Valerie Singleton had only just come to the boil and had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was on a promise after the show. I didn’t know the language of love at that tender age and some of the terms were unfamiliar. ‘I’m going to fuck you big boy’ was obvious but I didn’t know what a ‘hot lunch’ was. It sounded good for him anyway.
‘What’s the problem then, Mr. Noakes?’ I asked, confused. ‘It looks like you’re up for a right seeing-to, and no mistake…’
‘What’s the problem?!’ he barked, ‘WHAT’S THE FUCKING PROBLEM?! IT’S SHEP!!’
‘But…but Shep’s dead Mr. Noakes, Shep’s dead!’
John swayed and looked down on me, the hint of a triumphant smile on his wet lips.
‘Oh no he’s not…Not thanks to modern science. Shep’s alive. IN ME!!’
‘What? I don’t understand!’
Panic was rising in my chest, I tried to rise but he pushed me firmly back down.
‘Surgery boy! Surgery! I’ve melded Shep into my own body! It was the right thing to do…it felt so good!’
Jesus, suddenly the hairy nipples made sense…they were Shep’s! But, surely, he can’t have…
‘But oh! The irony!’ he gargled, ‘I have my little Sheppy forever, but because of this, I can’t have Valerie, she won’t want me now!’
I had to think fast.
‘But it’s only nipples John, surely you can keep your shirt on and she’ll never know!’
His hand moved up to the back of my head, grabbing my hair and twisting it around his strong fingers.
‘Oh she’ll know alright boy, she’ll know…’
I gagged in horror as his dressing gown fell to the floor. The nipples were the least of it. I watched, frozen with horror as his canine lipstick started to emerge from within himself, leaking a silken thread of doggy pre-cum two inches from my face.
‘But you don’t mind do you lad?…You don’t mind…’
I was powerless to resist as Shep’s engorged member forced its way to the back of my throat.
He sobbed in reply.
‘No, really. It happens to everyone. Especially people with high pressure jobs, like you’
‘I just wanted to give you a good seeing to, yes?’
He looked up at me with those cold blue eyes and started to cry again.
‘It’s okay Gordon. No, it’s really fine.’
‘Just, just don’t tell Anthony Worrell-Thompson, yes? That little SHIT will tell everyone what happened, yes? I don’t want to lose my sponsorship deals, yes?’
The Michelin-starred chef gave me a hug. A little trail of snot dribbled out of his nose as he made the internationally recognised hand-signal for ‘would you like a cup of tea?’ (You make your hands into the shape of the letter tea and raise your eyebrows). I nodded.
Once he was back in the kitchen he seemed to come alive again. His muscled body was covered in eczema and his back-hair had been shaved into a Saltaire, dyed blue. When he returned he had a silk kimono on. It was too short, and his puny balls were visible below the hemline.
‘That’s nice Gordon,’ I said. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘It is fucking nice isn’t it, yes? I got it from Japan. Yes, the actual Japan.’
I nodded and sipped the tea.
‘Look, do you want to just cuddle for a bit?’ he asked.
‘Erm, well I have to…’
‘Only for a bit! Go on, yes?’
He pounced on me and knocked the tea out of my hands. I rocked him forwards and backwards on my knee cooing softly. Gordon sucked his thumb and snuggled into the crook of my arm.
‘You know… if you hang around’ he sniffed ‘we could go and shout at my Sous Chef?’
He looked at me hopefully.
‘Perhaps Gordon. Perhaps’
‘It’s no good, Gillian!’ I exclaimed. ‘There’s something about your repugnant skeletal form that just isn’t doing anything for me!’
I pointed down at my flaccid winkwonk as if to illustrate the point.
McKeith sat drooping over her own bones like a knackered rubber glove draped on an electric fence, her entire form apparently covered in scrotal skin, like an aged Freddy Krueger. It was impossible to discern whether she was frowning or not – her wrinkles gave nothing away – a constant Sctoch scowl reverberated over her raw, Caledonian puckerface.
‘Och – ye’ve nae e’en tooowk a looowk at ma vaginus yit, ya feckin sasenach!’ she squawked like some horrific Glaswegian banshee.
Like a skeleton from a Harryhausen epic, McKeith bounced to her nimble feet, her naked figure a collection of wizened triangles and slowly she spread her clothes-peg pins. My jaw fell to the floor as a pungent ammonia filled the mixed sauna and my grandmother, God rest her soul, was forced to flee the steam-room.
‘Christ, Gillian! What on earth are you doing?! You’ve frightened Nan!’
‘Shut yer wee hole and stick yer wang in ma bucket!’ she wailed, as though her life depended on it.
I studied the gape in her enormous, foot long welly-top and couldn’t help but allow an urgent pebble-dash of diorrhea to spurt from my bumhole as I watched three fully formed, ripe avocados flop listlessly, one by one, from her gigantic, rancid flaps. They lay beneath her crouching belly, on the floor like recently laid eggs – each one covered in its own ectoplasmic gloop.
‘Aaaaah!’ she squealed, as a cabbage began to plip out of her arsehole.
‘EAT YER GREENS! EAT YER GREENS’ she screamed, forcing my soft mouth into her window-box.
Within a split-second I had submitted, and was ear-deep in an assault of piss-reeking, overgrown lady-garden, hopelessly thrashing away at my own poppet – the whole venture a thoroughly fruitless exercise.
‘Ooh, luvvie, ooh, ducks. Oooh’ said Dear Dickie as he opened his shirt, grabbing one of his moobs.
I’d been drinking pink champagne since six and was well up for some octogenarian cock from one of the greatest actors, ever. He’d pulled me into to his dressing room at The Garrick and kissed me forcefully on my lips…
‘Seen 10 Rillington Place?’ asked Dickie. ‘In that film I play John Reginald Christie… right bastard he was, right dirty’.
I felt myself getting hard; I didn’t shy away from the compunction to play with myself. I pulled up my skirt pushed my panties aside and got my hairy cock out, my bobble-end wet from piddle.
‘Oooh luvvie-ducks, darling’ said Dear Dickie. ‘I’m going to give you some Brown Brighton Rock with my Pinkie’.
Still pulling at myself like a bloody ape, Dickie spun me around and shoved my face through his dressing mirror, ‘kiss the fucking pain (pane)’ he squeaked. I felt him enter my botty and a little bit of sick came out of my broken nose.
‘Ooof,’ I said.
‘Aahh,’ said Sir Richard Attenborough.
After what seemed like 1 minute and 38 seconds, Dickie suddenly withdrew with a sad sigh. I felt a thin dribble of cold liquid run down the inside of my quivering thigh.
‘Have you seen Jurassic Park? ‘ he enquired, forlornly. ‘Jeff Goldblum has a tattoo of that very penis on his chest’. He pointed down at his shrinking member. ‘Dear Johnnie, dear Larry. All gone now, all gone. Gone.’
Not wasting a second I turned to face him and after farting an arc of watery issue over his BAFTA I pushed Dick to his knees.
‘What are you doing fucknuts?’ asked Dickie, his face contorted like he’d just licked lemon juice off dogshit.
‘I’m going to sex you up!’ I hissed, ‘right in your face, Dick, all night!’
One of Dickie’s balls gently dropped onto my toe. Grabbing Dickie’s chops, I thrust my contentious winky into his beard and pulled the fine hair about my member. I could hear Dickie muttering something as I pounded the fucking phlegm out of his milky old head, harder and harder, really fucking hard actually… a bit too hard, I felt his body go limp.
Shit, he’s not breathing. Fuck, fuck, fuck – what to do? I checked for a pulse. Jesus – I’ve fucked his face in! To death!
Before running off with his trophies and the 68 quid I found in his wallet, I pissed on his back.