The knight and the night of shame
I’ve been deliberating whether to put this one on as it could get me – and a certain celebrity into a shitload of trouble... But - as the primary school teacher says to the nervous six year old schoolboy – if it doesn’t cause any long term physical damage or mental scarring, fuck it.

Back in my early twenties I was quite a keen amature photographer. I’d found a shitload of camera gear in the bottom of one of my dad’s drawers and decided to liberate it for the good of mankind. After a couple of failed attempts to get my then girlfriend to jiggle for me while stroking her twin purple puffy love slugs in much the same way that a Bond villian stokes a cat while I snapped away, I decided to branch out into a different kind of photography. I took up wildlife photography. Taking pictures of robins on gateposts, getting cows to smile, catching frolicking rabbits in midair on a crisp March morning (just before they ripped the shit out of each other with their bastard sharp teeth). Strangely, I was really fucking good at taking these photos. Some of my mates said I had a gift. But deep down inside I knew I was just a failed Readers Wives photographer. (Its harder than it seems operating a camera with one hand)...

So, with this new-found talent and egged on by my mates, I decided to enter an under 25’s wildlife photographer of the year competition that was being organised by the BBC. I chose a portfolio of ten of my best countryside-animal-related snaps, arranged them in althabetical order: badger through to water vole, packaged them up and sent them off. Then I promptly forgot all about it and got on with my life.

About three months later I received a call – I’d only gone and been fucking shortlisted for the big prize! It was the BBC, so we’re not talking enough cash to buy your own tropical island, but it was a fair bit. Enough for a deposit on a flat somewhere nice, somewhere where the potential girlfriends wern’t so prudish they would bitch and moan when you wanted to take sexy snaps of them fucking a root vegetable. Yes, I had plans to move to London...

Armed with a real sense of purpose, I boarded the train and fucked off away from the Midlands, heading for the big smoke. It was a real whirlwind occasion. I was met at the station by a BBC researcher and taken to a nice hotel. I was told I had four hours before the event started, I was given a list of rules: no smoking, be presentable, have a shave, under absolutely no circumstances get absolutely shitfaced and grab the girl who reads Newsrounds knockers. I had been told. I was on best behavior. I was absolutely shitting myself. Four hours went by quickly, suddenly I found myself at a black tie dinner event, loads of famous people there, with a handful of contestants mulling about looking out of their depth, standing round big blown up photos of their entries.

I’d been shortlisted for my snap of a heron sneezing. It was – blown up to FUCK OFF HUGE SCALE – absolutely fucking incredible. I felt confident. I felt like I was going to win. I felt a hand rest lightly on my shoulder: “That’s a very lovely photograph. Do you know which one of the entrants took it?” I turned, explaining it was my handywork, and I stopped, my breath caught in my throat. I’d already sort of recognised the voice, but now I was staring into the kindly eyes of a man I felt I knew only too well, a man I’d grown up watching on the box. The kindly man smiled again, held out his hand: “You can call me David,” he said, and I took his hand and shook it lightly, in a bit of a daze.

I replied: “Don’t most people call you Mr Attenborough?” (This was way before the knighthood).

He smiled again, chuckled softly: “Don’t be silly! I wouldn’t dream of it!”

Anyway, David and I get chatting. He seemed like a really nice, normal, down-to-earth fella. The night wore on and, eventually, they announced the winner. Not me. I didn’t come close. The kitch photo of the bouncing lamb won; I think the fact the photographer was a fit as fuck blonde twenty year old who was wearing a dress that made it look like she had a couple of postage stamps covering her ample boosom helped no end. I was pissed off. David, my new best mate, consoled me. He even suggested we go back to his big old town house near Regents Park – he said he had a snooker table and would show me his amazing collection, the one he’d gathered from the four corners of the globe on his travels. Of course, I agreed in a heartbeat.

After a tedious cab journey we reached David’s gaff. We went inside. It was an awsome house. All old oak and paintings of dead dudes on the wall. He even had a glass cabinet with a costume in it, a ragged old set of robes: “My brother Dickie gave me that – it’s what Ghandi wore in the movie.” I was impressed. David offered me a very large glass of brandy and walked me through the place, gave me the guided tour. And when we reached his collection I very nearly shat myself. It was a living collection. Row upon row of gilded cage containing all mannor of exotic and strange looking creature.

“This is incredible,” I said. “What’s this?” David explained, in his enthusiastic way, that I was looking at a very rare species of monkey from the great plains of the Sumintee Veldt. It was an ugly fucker – like a chimp, but not as hairy. I stared at it, it stared back. And then my head started to hurt. David, seeing I wasn’t doing too well, came and grabbed me. I was suddenly very dizzy. The brandy had gone straight to my head.

And this is where it gets a bit difficult to type... This is the awful bit... My secret shame...

I came awake late – not too sure when – my head was fuzzy. I think I must’ve been spiked. I was lying facedown on a big luxuorious bed, and... ... and ... I was being fucked rigorously up the arse. I started to moan, I heard David say: “Don’t worry, just relax,” as a hand stroked my hair. “It will all be over soon...” I started to whimper, I was being fucked hard, really fucking hard. The grunting, sweating weight on my back was pinning me down. I couldn’t quite believe what was happenening. And occasionally there was a bright FLASH ! The whole room flooded with intense light. Then again, FLASH !

Eventually, after what seemed like a lifetime, I felt this large gnarly cock twitch and spurt, spraying a liberal load of hot sticky goo up my colon and then I was free. FLASH ! I gathered up my cloths, still in a drug enduced haze, glanced round, took in the scene – the look on David’s face, the strange otherworldly look - and without a word I left. And I’ve never told anyone about this night until now.

The night David Attenborough took photos and watched as I was sodomised by his Sumintee Veldt monkey... that's the rudest thing I've ever done in front of a celebrity.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 10:55, 3 replies)

Ugh
*SPANG*
( jim_bob can herd cats., Fri 9 Oct 2009, 11:11, closed)

oh dear god
what a beautiful mental picture. he's a knight of the realm, a KNIGHT OF THE REALM! click tho.
(Lizard King, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 13:39, closed)

I actually fell for that
hook line and sinker... up to a point. don't ever start writing childrens fiction, just don't - you'll end up in prison. *clicks*
(Accounts Dracula, Fri 9 Oct 2009, 13:43, closed)