The following is a work of pure fiction, based on the experiences of a fictional character in a fictional meeting with a fictional version of ITV television presenter, Adrian Chiles.
It should not be read by minors.
It was touch and go. One wrong move, and Chiles’ pile might drop, suspended as it was on a dwindling tissue-string, stuck fast by a single strand of congealed mucus. The once-bearded ex-One Show presenter was on all fours in my boudoir after a night at the local Wetherspoons, huffing and puffing his great girth like a birthing heifer in a scene from all Creatures Great & Small. Except this magnificent Brummie creature was quite without his smalls, his rotund posterior high in the air like an unclenched fist of flesh.
The stench from his anus was crippling.
Tears in my eyes, I asked Adrian what on earth he expected me to do. In his broad, West Midlands brogue he put his head on his shoulder and looked back at me, those sleepy eyes - now straining - his chubby cheeks vibrating with a mad and unfulfilled fucklust.
‘Just remove the flippin’ cangle-brackner and then stick the ruddy pin in!’ he wailed, before tsking and tutting, rolling a heavy, dangling moob between his index and thumb to keep his pecker turgid. The haemorrhoid had barred us from our passion all evening and Adrian was insistent we simply pluck the grape from the vine in order that I might finally push a rolling-pin up his gaping fart-flap before silently milking his passage.
But progress was not to be that simple. This was an enormous balloon of a sphincter-bulge, and I worried that any puncture might cause unprecedented rectal embarrassment.
‘But it’s so fat, Adey baby. I’ll never wrench this off without catastrophe! The shit will quite literally hit this fan. And the sheets. And my balls! We need an expert here’.
‘Expert, y’say?’ asked the ridiculous, hairy baby. ‘We’ve got experts! Right you are…’
Within seconds he was on his blackberry, gabbling away in regional tongues as I shielded his dangleberry from the drop, cradling it like it was a farting, wizened infant.
Instantaneously, the doorbell chimed and the sound of a toffee-nozzled chuckling emenated from behind the frontal entrance. ‘Giles!’ I roared as Brandreth wandered in, wearing only a woollen jumper and grimacing at the sight before him, his acorn drooping down from beneath the rim of his jersey. Adrian all doggy, and me behind his hairy back, now attempting to sellotape the Chile-pile to his considerable left cheek.
‘Hold your horses, common oik!’ blathered Brandreth. ‘There’ll be no need for sticky tapes!’
He pulled a pair of common or garden shears from a leather suitcase and began to snap at the air. In a flash, he had his jumper off, stuffing it in Adrian’s mouth and ordering him to close his eyes. He rounded on the ITV presenter’s backside and offered me a kinky ickle wink from sharp eyes.
‘Bite down hard, Adrian. This’ll only take a tiny tickety-boo’…
All the while, I could only think of Carol Thatch, and what she’d have given to be there then.
The following is a work of pure fiction, based on the experiences of a fictional character in a fictional meeting with a fictional version of controversial nutritionist, Gillian McKeith.
It should not be read by minors.
The following is a work of pure fiction, based on the experiences of a fictional character in a fictional meeting with a fictional version of actor and comedian, Robbie Coltrane.
It should not be read by minors.
‘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.
The following is a work of pure fiction, based on the experiences of a fictional character in a fictional meeting with a fictional version of TV & Radio presenter, Vanessa Feltz.
It should not be read by minors.
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 a sow cross-breeding in some vicious union, couldn’t it?
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 Jobcentre Plus, 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.
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. Could I trouble you for a cup of tea?’
‘THIS MORNING WE BE DISCUSSING AWFUL SHITBAG WHO COME MY HOUSE AND ARE UNABLE TO DO A PERFORM WHEN TOYBOY AWAY’ she blathered on. ‘WANT TO KNOW WHATOO THINK WE DO ABOUT THESE…?’
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-replied.
‘WRONG!’ she shouted, full of shit and vim. ‘WE PUTS 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!’
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 I dreamed of the good old days. Before Vanessa, before Trisha, back 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.
The following is a work of pure fiction, based on the experiences of a fictional character in a fictional meeting with a fictional version of Queen guitarist, Brian May.
It should not be read by minors.