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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.