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This is a question Nativity Plays

Every year the little kids at schools all over get to put on a play. Often it's christmas themed, but the key thing is that everyone gets a part, whether it's Snowflake #12 or Mary or Grendel (yes, really).

Personally I played a 'Rich Husband' who refused to buy matches from some scabby street urchin. Never did see her again...

Who or what did you get to be? And what did you have to wear?

(, Thu 26 Mar 2009, 17:45)
Pages: Latest, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, ... 1

This question is now closed.

B3ta Nativity play, Act 1
Scene: classroom, B3ta Grant Maintained Primary School. Pasta and glitter glue CDCs adorn the walls. The teacher, Mr chthonic, is discussing the forthcoming nativity play.

Mr chthonic: (soothingly) Okay. Now, let's see... Pooflake, you've been very good this year. Consistent performance, just as expected. Right, you can be Joseph.

Pooflake: Woo!

SpankyHanky: But sir! Sir! That's not fair! I got loads of Best Ofs.

Mr chthonic: Sorry Spanky, but Joseph is a very responsible post. We need a reliable type like Pooflake in that role. You can be the Innkeeper.

(Pooflake belms beams.)

SpankyHanky: (huffily) I don't want to be the Innkeeper. I want to do Mary

Mr chthonic: What was that Spanky?

SpankyHanky: I said, who is going to be Mary?

CHCB: Oh, can I be Mary, sir, can I?

Mr chthonic: No, CHCB. Mary was a Virgin. The Bible is quite clear on that.

Enzyme: Actually, sir, that's a mistranslation-

Mr chthonic: (abruptly) yes, thank you Enzyme. At the risk of typecasting, you can be a Wise Man. BGB will play Mary.

(BGB pokes her tongue out at CHCB.)

Mr chthonic: The other two Wise Men are Sexmonkey and althegeordie. We need to keep them away from the goats so they can't be shepherds. Don't let them stand next to each other. Apeloverage is a shepherd. It's a non-speaking role so we should be safe from punnage. Rakky, chickenlady and rachelswipe are angels. I've got you down as the Archangel Gabriel, PJM, but if you utter a word about unmarried mothers on benefits, I'll have your life. Everyone else is a sheep or a donkey. CHCB, you can be the narrator.

CHCB: (bitterly) I'm always the narrator.

Mr chthonic: your Norn Irish accent puts the fear of god into the others. That seems fitting.
(Claps hands) Right! Rehersals start tomorrow. Spanky, stop pulling BGB's hair or I'll send you to the Headmaster. Remember what happened last time you went to see Mr Rob? Yes, well, not another word out of you.

(Act 2 is here)

(, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 15:49, 55 replies)
Bean Countin' Man - the happy ending

Those of you that know me will be aware that every Friday afternoon, from 1.00 til 2.00, I spend an hour at a local primary school, helping some of the kids with their reading. It's something I started doing when Jasmine was little - the school always encourages Dads to help with reading, as there are so few male role models in schools - especially primary schools - these days. I was also co-opted onto the board of governors and I've remained there ever since. It's a fair sized school, with three classes in each year from Year 1 (5 year olds) up to Year 6 (10 - 11 yr olds), it also has a nursery with limited places. As a result, the headteacher has an annual budget of well over £1m to play with and my professional help (freely given of course) with budgeting is gratefully received. So, I'm pretty much part of the fixtures and fittings at Wellington Grove. It's good to give something back to the community and I always enjoy it. If you've ever seen a seven year old boy who had trouble with his reading gaining confidence as well as ability over the course of a year, you'd agree it was a worthwhile way to spend an hour a week. This year, I'm working with four kids in Year 4 that need a bit of extra help, there are a pair of identical twin, Polish girls, a sturdy little chap called Matthew with a runny nose and a bit of a perspiration problem and a really cute little kid called Kyle, who has thick brown hair to his shoulders.

Since posting last February, I've also made some positive steps towards finding myself some permanent female company. The first thing I did was to tentatively sign up on an online dating site, though apart from the odd reasonably pleasant meal, it was a wash-out. I also started to get myself back into shape. Since my early 40s, my waist has steadily grown outwards and although buying looser trousers helps in the short term, it doesn't address the underlying problem. So, I started running, or, to be more accurate, jogging. Every Sunday and Wednesday morning, as early as I can manage, I don my gear and head out of the house, down the street to the cycle path that runs along the river. There's a path either side of the river and it's a popular spot for joggers, as there are fairly regular bridges, you can choose the length of your run to suit your legs, lungs or time available.

After a few weeks, I began to recognise some of my fellow joggers. I run with an iPod on, but, being a polite chap, I always nod to those coming the opposite way and they nod back. Some dog walkers nod too, though they tend to talk to each other more and ignore joggers. And then there was her.

The first time I noticed her she was about a hundred yards in front of me and moving very easily, whereas I was trundling along with my would-be love handles jiggling with every step. I tried to get a bit closer because, even at that distance, I could tell that jogging behind her would provide a very useful distraction from my labouring lungs. Unfortunately, she was far fitter than me and got further in front with every step. Never mind, I thought, and continued on my almost merry way. Ten minutes later I was rewarded with a sight of her coming towards me, but on the far side of the river. Although still a fair way away, I could see that even what was probably a decent sports bra was insufficient to prevent teeshirt moving more than my saddlebags and a lot more attractively.

The next Sunday, there she was again and, frustratingly, a little further in front of me than last time. I resolved to leave the house five minutes earlier the following week. It's not that I'm a perv or anything, this was no young girl that I was intent on letching after, I could tell that she was a mature woman who had kept herself trim, I just reasoned that if I was determined to carry on with this running malarky, then I may as well provide myself with every incentive. Anyway, the plan worked like clockwork. I left the house at 6.55am rather than 7.00am and when I was nearly at the half way point in my run and about to reach the bridge, she ran past me easily and headed for the bridge. I reached the bottom of the steps when she was half way up and guiltily looked up to see her lycra-clad behind bouncing merrily up the steps. The rest of that run I stayed behind her, though progressively further and further behind.

As spring progressed to summer and the mornings got lighter and the weather milder, I found I was shedding ounces of fat. I cut out alcohol during the week, gave up chocolate and crisps and soon I was looking at myself in the mirror with something other than head-shaking resignation. Sometimes, I'd run the route the other way round, so that I could nod at my running muse as she came towards me.

Anyway, back to the story. Christmas was coming and I was invited to the Nativity Play. The kids I read with always bounded up to me when they saw me sitting at the little table in the upstairs hall when they came in from lunchtime playtime on a Friday. As it was my last week's reading of the term, I'd bought each of them a little book, as well as a box of miniture heroes for the rest of the class. The kids were pleased with their pressies and also pleased to be able to present me with a typical kiddies home-made christmas card with 'Thank you Mr Bean-Counter' on the front with a picture of a christmas tree. Little Kyle gave me a hug after opening his pressie and said he'd try to read it with his mum during the holidays.

The following Wednesday was the Nativity play day so I took the day off. I went for my usual run then lazed around until it was time to go to the school. I got there early as these events are always well attended and found a seat in the second row. Soon someone came and sat next to me and I glanced at them, as you do. She seemed familiar, but I couldn't remember where from. The play proceeded and when Kyle came on as a shepherd he waved enthusiastically at me so I waved back, in fact, the lady sat next to me and I did a synchronised wave-back. We looked at each other with matching puzzled expressions.

"You must be Kyle's mum." I whispered. She nodded, looking a bit wary. "I'm Mr Bean-Counter - I listen to Kyle read on Fridays."

"Oh, I'm so glad I met you." she was whispering too, she had to lean quite close. "I wanted to thank you. He loves reading now."

As we were talking, it suddenly clicked - she was the Sunday morning jogger. I resisted doing the old 'didn't recognise you with your clothes on' routine, but sat quietly until the end of the interval. Then, as casually as possible (which isn't really all that casual at all) I asked. "So, your husband couldn't make it then?"

"No. We don't see much of him. I did hope he'd make the effort but..." she sighed, "Poor Kyle misses him a lot."

"Look, I'm not doing anything this afternoon, I don't suppose the two of you fancy tea and a cake do you?"

To cut a long story short we began to get to know each other that afternoon. We both took it steadily but having Kyle on my side helped. I let on that I recognised her from the cycle-path and she joked that it was nice to have a man chasing her again.

This year on Valentine's day, I could tell that part of Jasmine wanted to be somewhere else, with someone else. I'm not sure if she could tell that the same was true for me, but I broached the subject and we both agreed that we were happy for the other. Jaz wanted to meet Kyle's mother (name protected etc. etc.) so I cooked dinner for the four of us. It was strange, but it felt right, a funny little family group for the 21st century: Me - 47, Her - 34, Jaz - 21, Kyle - 8. Who'd have thought that we'd all get on so well together.

I finally managed to catch up with her at the end of February. I don't intend letting her get away.
(, Mon 30 Mar 2009, 18:36, 13 replies)
I was about seven and was cast as one of the shepherds. We were to enter, stage left, talking amongst ourselves. There were no lines, just the instruction to 'talk amongst ourselves'.

I asked a teacher what sort of thing we we should say and was told, "Just say 'rhubarb'". Now, I may not have been great at improvising dialogue, but I *was* good at organising and motivating...

Enter stage left, a group of shepherds inexplicably bellowing, "Rhubarb!" perfectly in unison.

The following year I was a tree.
(, Sun 29 Mar 2009, 17:55, 6 replies)
Christine. Oh Christ, oh Christine…

I was just 16 tender, inexperienced years old…and blessed with the inability to shed myself of the kind of ‘puppy fat’ that you’d only expect to see on someone who has spent well over a decade actually eating puppies.

I woefully tried to overcompensate for my lack of self-confidence with a brutish arrogance, and skilfully developed a personality akin to an awkward and unholy threesome chemical coupling of Timmy Mallett, Ruby Wax…and Bernard Manning.

I’m afraid to say that the only success I was managing to achieve that involved a ‘willy’…was the high score on my naff ZX Spectrum version of ‘Jet Set Willy’… and unfortunately nothing to do with the dormant dormouse that slumbered in my misery-grey Farah trollies.

My time in the sixth form was understandably difficult…and it was made even more frustrating by the school’s futile attempts to say ‘bollocks’ to political correctness whilst desperately trying to not offend anybody…and part of this policy included the re-introduction of ‘traditional seasonal’ activities.

Oh yes…this meant that they were going to dig up the goddam motherfucking dull-as-shit Nativity play.

Of course, we all thought this was a truly twattish idea…‘kids stuff’ – after all, we were tempestuous, bulging fireballs of flowering sexuality (except for me), and we didn’t want to waste our valuable ‘fucking about’ time by rehearsing lines just so we could get dressed like 70’s deck chairs and look ridiculous next to plastic farm animals.

But they insisted, and as they asked for volunteers, one voice spoke up through the silence and I was transfixed.

It was Christine, the new girl.

By Jingo’s jumping jizz beans she was something else. Perfectly formed and with a full set of curves, she had a confident, sexy swagger that belied her young years.

‘I’ll do it!” she said softly, with the kind of sensuous, husky voice that sounded like a combination of a Disney Princess and a 40-a-day coal miner, her every word was so gushingly sexy it made Marriella Frostrup’s drawl sound like runny hippo dung, mixed with gravel and vomit, then being forced to negotiate itself out of a skanky blocked waste disposal system.

I was totally unprepared for this.

In an instant, ‘Jet set’ Willy was forgotten about, replaced by a proud, ‘jet-propelled’ Willy that had woken with a jolt from it’s coiled snoozing, and sprang to full attention, sniffing around my grundies like a startled Meerkat…and as soon as my eyes could communicate what was happening to the to the relative ‘lower departmental manager’, so began the fateful trickle of a soon-to-be-familiar seepage, leaking out and forming a caked-on crustacean in my already painfully punished shreddies.

I signed up straight away for the Nativity, and fell instantly, dramatically and cataclysmically in love with Christine. This was, however, in no small part that on our first meeting, she walked boldly up towards me, looked me up and down, muttered ‘You’ll do’, then dragged me behind the science block where she proceeded to sublimely munch on my luncheon meat truncheon with an expertise I had only believed possible on the most specialist of skin flicks.

Over the next two weeks we were inseparable, and she took me on a voyage of discovery that started to give me a new found confidence (and friction burns)…my eyes were opened to the ‘ways of the woman’. I started shedding pounds in weight, but it might have just been due to the excess loss of bodily fluids and wotnot.

There were no Spectrum games to prepare me for this experience. So from then on, despite the dangers, I was smitten.

These ‘dangers’ I speak of, were specifically her love of ‘dangerous sex’. Harder, rougher and increasingly unspeakable, she wanted to break a different taboo with every dip of my shell-shocked semolina-spitting salami slide.

Anyway…back to the play…The drama teacher had cast us as ‘Mary and Joseph’, considering it ‘sweet’* that Christine and I were ‘courting’, and that it might add a ‘romantic panache’, ‘touch of chemistry’, and certain ‘je ne sais quoi’ into the proceedings. We were told to improvise as much as we thought appropriate.

*(Sweet? My hairy clackervalve! If only he knew of the downright deviant and perverted acts that permanently rummaged through our rampant and lustful tiny minds, he would’ve had a coronary right there and then!)

A few short days later and we’re at the dress rehearsal, and as we waited in our positions Christine approached me and whispered: ‘I want you…NOW!’’, opening her flimsy costume to show me in no uncertain terms that she was stark bollock starkers underneath.

(We had previously talked about ‘Al fresco’ sex, and even experimented with a dabble here and there in public places before, but had never gone the ‘whole hog’…and besides…this was something different…We were at the back of the stage, behind just one curtain with the crib, waiting for our cue to walk out after the first song...tres risqué!)

But as I weighed up the possibilities, I had to admit to myself that the thought of enthusiastically and pneumatically pumping away at her perspiring pouch of pubed perfection, knowing that there was only a thin layer of fabric between us and getting caught, was certainly arousing a stirring of lumpy loin liquid in my heaving 'nads…and as for Christine…well, she was positively frothing at the gash for it.

Besides…it was only the dress rehearsal…there couldn’t be that many people there…?

In the spirit of improvisation, we hadn’t even bothered to learn our lines. After all, we had better things to do with our time. We had decided to dress up and ‘wing it’ in the hope that the prompt would sort us out if we dried up. All we knew to do was to wait for a call.

So as the piano started, there we were, hidden away, waiting for our cue, when Christine bends seductively over the rickety manger which was strategically balanced on a bale of hay, and she slowly slides her smock to one side, revealing her pert behind…then in a moving homage to the red sea, she parted her cheeks ever-so-slightly for me.

Green light.

I didn’t need asking twice, my twitching cock was already at ‘Defcon 1’, and within T-minus 12 seconds my slacks were round my ankles and I was thundering away, pummelling her with a force so frenzied you’d think the end of my Ham Howitzer was attached to her internal organs by a massive and tightly wound industrial strength elastic band.

As the boinging intensified, Christine was no slouch either, bucking, writhing and breathlessly panting whilst biting down hard on the 'Tiny Tears' doll that was portraying the baby Jesus, as she busied herself putting the ‘Whore’ and ‘Moan’ into the word ‘hormonal’.

As we rutted like rampant rhinos, there was a faint ‘whirring’ sound that began to surround us. Totally focussed on the job at hand, we carried on oblivious. Nothing was going to stop me now.

Finally, as the whirring grew louder I raged full-throttle towards the 'Jester’s shoes' moment, and with a 'grunt' rivalling that of an Olympic shot-putter, I closed my eyes and went curl-lipped into the most contorted cum face imaginable this side of ‘Gurning weekly’ magazine, before I unleashed a stream of purest tadpole-encrusted rocket sauce, splooging forth into Christine’s capacious clammy crevice of copulation.

I then slouched forward over her back, as my legs starting to buckle under post orgasmic aftershocks. I had put so much gusto into my final, extra deep spunk-thrunge that I still suffer whiplash to this very day.

Amidst the blissful silence that followed, I then heard a single noise that changed my educational future forever...


We then glanced up to see that the ‘whirring’ sound that we had previously ignored…was in fact the electric motor that had opened the curtains, unveiling our frantic backscuttling action to the rest of the gobsmacked cast.

But not only the cast, but the teachers, the board of governors, and some specially invited guests, who were comprised of the ladies from the old folks’ home, and chosen representatives from the local parish council…led by the vicar himself…who had come to see our (un)dress rehearsal.

I must have missed that memo.

I pondered for a moment over my options…then decided there was only one thing I could do…

I promptly whipped my knob out from Christines’ Jitler-filled clopper, wiped it on the Baby Jesus’ blanket, then leaned back proudly, leaving my dribbling dongler dangling daintily as I announced to the audience:

“Oh, don’t look so shocked, you lot!” I declare whimsically before continuing: “You didn’t really believe it was an ‘immaculate’ conception did you?“

To their credit, some of the old ladies started applauding, explaining later that they thought it was a ‘gritty and modern interpretation on the nativity’, before the sweaty PE teacher grabbed me by the sack (my costume) and dragged me to the headmasters’ office…where it was spelled out to me in no uncertain terms: "...that ‘home instruction’ would be the most suitable option for my ‘special educational requirements’ from then on".

Good times.

Epilogue: I looked Christine up on Facebook recently. It seems that by day, she’s an assistant for the MP of Nuneaton Borough, and by night she enjoys taking it up the wrongun’ from random strangers in the horse enclosure at Ascot. Quite a queue forms at weekends apparently…bit of a tourist attraction.

And now, fondly looking back, I’d like to think that our 'nativity-related naughtiness' of that fateful day might be at least partly responsible for her now insatiable taste for ‘stable-related fun’…and spunk, of course.

I might give her a call.
(, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 11:58, 28 replies)
Let me entertain you…

Talk about timing!

My 8 year old Flakelet’s seat of learning has adopted the school play equivalent of a broadband ‘Fair usage policy’, whereby every single class from every single year in his gargantuan cunting school gets to perform a nativity play (to full politically correct and non-threatening multi cultural standards of course) in an attempt to ensure that everybody is given a chance to embarrass themselves and twat about on a badly constructed stage. (obviously TRL didn’t apply his set-building skills to this place)

As you can imagine, this non-stop nativity marathon has been going on for what seems like fucking donkey’s years…it’s going to last until early June apparently…then afterwards they’ll start rehearsals for next year’s effort, which as you can imagine I’m looking forward to like a hole in the scrotum, administered by a blind psychopath with a rusty knitting needle.

However, in keeping with last week’s QotW, the Gods of timing have been kind to me, because it was only last night that it was the turn of my Flakelet’s nativity. What are the odds?

So…after a hard day’s work and with a million things still to do, I am forced to put my new suit on, then trek blistering miles to pretend to enjoy fucking amateur hour whilst watching my boy stutter through one fucking line of crappy, half-arsed, badly delivered dialogue.

The Flakelet has been banging on nauseatingly about this for months. “It’s the most important line in the whole play!” he squealed excitedly. “I’m one of the kings!...I have to stand in front of the whole audience at the very end and shout proudly: ‘Holy Lord, praise us all on this wonderful day!’…it’s gonna be brill!”

“Hmm” I think to myself…my hopes are not high.

Eventually, we assemble in the dimly lit, draughty school hall with the climbing apparatus bolted securely to the walls and a load of old bedsheets fastened by drawing pins (which by some incredible stretch of the imagination is meant to depict night-time Jerusalem – I weep for the future of education).

As my arse cheeks flop over the sides of the undersized, flimsy plastic seats I mutter “All this for one cunting line?” despondently to the present Mrs Pooflake, whose heartfelt beam of motherly pride is radiating around the room like one of those plug-in air fresheners.

“Shut the fuck up!” she snarls at me stealithy, whilst utilising her long practiced talent of delivering a well-aimed slap round my mush without anybody noticing.

After what seems like a cursed eternity, the lights slowly go up and I am slapped again…

(She had noticed that through boredom, my eyes had wandered and were now distracted by the rather hot looking assistant teacher who always dresses on the ‘slightly wrong side of appropriate’ on these occasions – all the fathers in the room were sharing a discerning ‘nod’ to each other in recognition and collective admiration of the gelatinous globe action bursting out from her low cut top.)

After a badly played piano intro, a gaggle of kids troop onto the stage, tripping over their brown hessian sack outfits and waving enthusiastically as the teatowels slip from their heads. There is a simultaneous ‘Awwwww’ breathed amongst the throngs of parents which manages to successfully suppress my cries of “Get the fuck on with it!”. However, I am soon sniggering to myself as they start singing, and I fondly remember the rude version of ‘When shepherds watch their flocks by night’

As I scan the stage, I can’t even see my Flakelet. “What the cock?” I ask.

“Shhhh, here he is now” TPMPF whispers as lo and behold, my mini-me ambles onto the stage wearing a spankgly skirt, bacofoil waiscoat and a dislodged crown that looks as if it has just been wrenched from a Tesco Value cracker and plonked on his bewildered barnet…

I have to admit he looked quite cute…

Right up to the point where he idles up towards the back amongst the sheep, leans against ‘the night sky’, pulls his fucking PHONE out of his pocket and starts pressing buttons frantically!

“MMmmppfff?” I wheeze as people start to 'tut' at this disobedient brat…I then desperately start gesturing futile attempts at sign language in his general direction whilst mouthing the words ‘Put your fucking phone away!’ in the vain hope of him even looking out to see if we were there. He just carried on oblivious.

The play dragged mercilessly on, and the boy hardly looked up from his phone the whole time, surfing the net as if his life depended on it…

(I know, I know…. it’s a bit ‘over-the-top’ to give a full internet-ready 3G smartphone to an 8 year old, but hey, I’m a techie, so leave off)

After endless songs, crude acting and a bizarre ‘incident with the Myrrh’ we reach 5:45pm, the nightmare play is finally coming to an end and it’s time for the big line. All the kids part like the veritable Red sea and someone nudges my Flakelet. He barely glances up, refusing to tear his gaze from his phone where he is pressing one button constantly with a look of intense frustration on his face. He then groans a little, and he walks towards the front of the stage. Parents are starting to whine in unison about ‘bad parenting’ and how he ‘was ruining everything’…

As he stands there at the front, it is time to deliver the big line and he is still looking at his bloody phone…One of the teachers then ‘coughs’ loudly to distract him…and suddenly his whole face falls like he’d been whacked with a 2 tonne mallet of depression.

He drops his phone, looks blankly at the audience and starts to speak…:


The crowd gasp. Has he forgotten his one line? What the flowery fluorescent fuck was going on?

As the teacher tries to prompt, he continues to stutter: “Holy…….Holy?”…he then stares at the floor with a strained expression of severe disbelief

We all wait, breathlessly glistening with anticipation.

Finally, after a long, dramatic pause…he clears his throat then angrily bellows: “Holy….fucking cuntflaps! – what a shite Question of the Week!”

I didn’t even know he read B3ta.
(, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 10:28, 14 replies)
Nativity Riot
I was a shepherd, complete with wooden shepherd's crook, freshly manufactured with a broom handle and some vicious looking coat hangers wrenched into a vague question mark shape wrapped with brown paper.

And someone had stolen Flossy, the lamb I was supposed to prance about on stage with in a few minutes time. Flossy may have been cotton wool, newspaper, and a pair of my mums old tights, but she meant the world to me. And worse, there was the inevitable public humiliation of going on stage sheeplessly.


So I panicked, ran around, desperately seeking any sign of the soggy bag of fluff that was Flossy. In tears after the first five minutes.

And that's when I saw her. My little mate Ollie had lost his own newspaper sheep, and, in a cunning plan, had taken Flossy for himself. And he was halfway to getting on stage, resplendent in all his Flossy glory.

The red mist descended on my young mind. That was my sheep, and I was having it.

Don't know exactly how it happened, but the next thing I knew, I was on the stage, in front of an eagerly awaiting crowd of doting parents.

Fury, unlike any my tiny mind had ever known. The curved part of my shepherd's crook was around Ollie's neck, slamming him to the floor. Much to my delight, for all my puny pre-pubescent muscles, 3 foot of broomstick can inflict a hell of a lot of leverage on a 3-foot child. Then there was the vicious coat-hanger core of the crooked end, pretty nasty stuff under it's thin paper shell.

Next swipe, Ollie was hurled away off his balance into the aghast parental audience.

The initial euphoria of a job well done slowly turned into an 'oh shit!'moment. Eddie, Ollie's best mate, a big muscly 6 year old who should have started shaving was making his way towards me- in his hands, yet another one of those vicious crooks.

5 year old shepherd fight!

Anarchy descended. Mary brained Joseph with the baby Jesus (a doll with a fairly solid head). 3 Angels descended upon her, who were promptly pelted with gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.

Eddie caught me a vicious backhanded blow with the rear end of his crook, sending me sprawling. He then attacked the nearest donkey, trying to drag poor unfortunate Michael out of the torso sized papier mache head. I'm not sure why, but Eddie was weird.

Parents ran on stage to grab their beloved babies, only making the situation worse. There was no way this was stopping now, and it was only a matter of time before the first adult punch was thrown...

Later that evening, I was curled up sobbing in the bath, tending a black eye, burst lip and the emotional scars of the worst bollocking I'd ever known.

The worst part? The next day, I found a ripped and torn Flossy without her stuffing, jammed in a rubbish bin. I couldn't even rescue the marbles I'd sacrificed to simulate her eyes. This, ladies and gentlemen, is how wars start.
(, Thu 26 Mar 2009, 23:48, 2 replies)
I absolutely fucking hated Simon Jones.


Because he was a cunt.

That's why.

Simon Jones was the kid at school who had everything. His glamorous mum would pick him up in her brand new Ford Capri (a fucking flash motor indeed if you grew up in Coventry), he was always the best at sport and was school captain at everything, his teeth were pearly white, his hair immaculate and wavey, and no doubt his shit had the fine fragrance of fucking roses.

I absolutely detested his perfect fucking guts.

And to top things off, Gemma Buckley, my first ever girlfriend at the age of five (a girl who let me look at her bits in the playground, all bald and pink and puckered up like Popeye sucking a lemon), dumped me so she could go out with Simon-twat-features-Jones.

God, even now I want to rip the cunt's head off and shit down the hole.

So, its early December 1981. My teacher, Mrs Facey, explains that we're going to put on a play at the end of the Christmas term. She also explains that she's going to pick who's going to have the best roles.

"Can I be Joseph!?!" I demand.

Mrs Facey ignores me.

"PLEASE!!! I'd be really GOOD!!! I was BORN to be JOSEPH!!!"

Still, she ignores me, she's talking to the entire class, not just young Spanky, she explains. I'm only six, so I take the only reasonable course of action. I storm to my feet, knock over my desk and chair, and pull my pants and trousers down. Then I stand, triumphant, hands on hips, my tiny pink maggot on display for all to see.

Now, this tactic usually got results. But not today. No.

The plum roles were cast. I was fucking livid. Gemma Buckley was going to be Mary, and Simon-cuntface-Jones was Joseph. And I was cast as...

...a fucking squirrel.


And I only had one line: "Jesus, please take these nuts."

Did they even have squirrels in Bethlehem? I shouldn't complain though, my mate Terry was cast as a giraffe.

Anyway, fastfoward several weeks of burning fucking resentment and self pity (the lot of an actor is hard, you know). Its the big night. The PE hall is filled with parents, looking bored, wishing they were in the pub, wondering how long this utter shit would last before they could go home.

Simon-cocking-Jones is playing a stormer. He's acting and looking like Leonardo Di Caprio, the cunt. He has the crowd in raptures strutting round the stage with a tea towel on his head and a beard made out of brown felt strapped to his chisled chin. He looks like a bronzed adonis, a living god.

I'm dressed in a brown leotard with a feather duster as a tale and I've got whiskers drawn on my cheeks in mascara. I look like a fucking twat.

Then its my time, time for my line. I shuffle forward and lob a load of nuts into the baby Jesus' manger.

I take a deep breath, this is my moment, the crowd is mine, and scream at the top of my lungs:


And a ripple of chuckling goes out across the audience. Fuck! Did that wrong. I look to the side and see Mrs Facey getting ready to come and take my hand and lead me off stage. So I improvise another line while I've got the spotlight. I hollar:


More chuckles, and then I feel Mrs Facey lifting me up and carting me off stage. Fuck me, that teacher could move faster than Wonder Woman when she had to.

And then we're back to Simon-cock-munching-Jones. Its like he's been performing for the Royal Shakespeare Company for thirty years. And Gemma aka Mary is lapping it up.

I stand at the side of the stage, arms folded across my chest, my bottom lip protruding out a mile. I'm grumbling to myself.

And then the nativity ends, Simon-wanker-Jones takes a bow. And its over.

Oh, apart from the violence...

As my arch nemisis is taking his second bow to raptuous applause, I come up with a genius plan. This will rescue the evening for me.

When Mrs Facey's back's turned I run back on stage, charging along like a large rabid squirrel, and smacked the cunt right in the mouth.

Simon started to cry. Then I started to cry.

The crowd was angry, I could tell. Shit! I've fucked it all up! How the fuck can I win them over???

Well, let me tell you, struggling out of a leotard with a feather duster strapped on the arse so you can stand there, triumphant, hands on hips, while you show a hall full of parents your pink maggot...

...well, its not as easy as it sounds.
(, Thu 26 Mar 2009, 22:27, 8 replies)
Back in December last year I went to see my daughter play her first part in the school play. Usually they do the nativity but for some reason the school had opted to choose to do fairytale stories this year and my kid had got the role of tree number 3 in sleeping beauty. The costume consisted of a large cardboard tube wrapped around her (For the tree trunk) a brown jumper to make her arms look like branches and a cardboard cut out of leaves taped to her hands.

The plan was for her and two others to stand up next to sleeping beauty to add a visualisation of the years passing between sleeping beauty falling to sleep and the prince turning up. The prince would then turn up playfully hit the trees and each tree would fall down.

The prince got to the first tree and swung his plastic sword…Whack! The first tree kid fell over
The prince gallops over to the second one and whack! Second tree kid falls over too
The prince then wanders over to my kid and hits her….she stays stood. The prince whacked the tree again, this time a little harder. This time she moved, but not the way planned.

I may not have mentioned this before but my daughter has been brought up with two brothers and is therefore pretty tough, and when there is a fight to be had she won’t back down.
Thanks to my little girls attitude the group of parents were treated to a scene where the tree comes alive whomping willow style and then uproots itself to chase the (now in tears) prince off the stage. The sight of this made myself and a few of the other dads in the room laugh out loud (Thankfully including the dad of the kid playing the prince- he was a big fucker who plays rugby).

The now sobbing prince returns to stage holding a teachers hand and is walked to Sleeping Beauty and wakes her up while the off stage voice of a pissed off tree yells “ He started it he hit me first!”

After the play on the way home I was the one that got the bollocking from my wife for laughing at the whole thing.
My guess is my daughter is destined to be in a non-speaking background part next year.
(, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 10:10, 3 replies)
B3ta Nativity play, Act 3

(Act 1 is here)

(Act 2 is here)

Scene: A suitably chastened bunch of b3tards stand around a cardboard box in which baw_bag lies, nappy-clad and gurgling as the baby Jesus, attempting to look up BGB's robe as she coos over the box. Pooflake, with a damp patch spreading across his crotch, glares at them.

CHCB: That night, Mary gave birth to a baby. And he was Jesus.

(On one side of the stage appear Apeloverage and Undercovercarrot wearing teatowels on their heads and accompanied by 127 sheep. Rakky, chickenlady and rachelswipe appear before them clad in diaphanous sheets and wearing tinsel halos.)

Angels (as a chorus): Be not afraid! We bring you tidings of great joy!

(Apeloverage bites his tongue, hard. The sheep try to out-fluffeh one another.)

Angels: You will find the saviour in a stable in Bethlehem.

(The shepherds manage to convey puns to each other by means of gestures. Mr chthonic marches on stage and confiscates Apeloverage's crook, then clips him round the ear with it.)

Apeloverage: (muttering) That's crooked behaviour.

(The shepherds and their 127 sheep shuffle offstage.)

(The Resident Loon appears on stage, clad only in tinfoil and twinkling for all he's worth. Enzyme, althegeordie and Bert Sexmonkey walk on stage with large cardboard gold crowns, singing "We Three Kings of Orient Are". Unknown to Enzyme, who leads the way nobly, al and Bert are pelvic thrusting in time to the tune and sniggering at the end of every line. Al is momentarily distracted by one of the sheep that he mistakes for a goat, but is pushed back into place by Mr chthonic. They arrive at the 'stable'.)

Enzyme (solemnly): We are the Wise Men. We have travelled far to see this child. I bring gifts of gold.

althegeordie; You stole that from your Turkish boy.

Enzyme: No I didn't, it's a middle class family heirloom.

althegeordie: I bring you gifts of frankincense. (He hands the box to BGB.)

Bert: Why is it white? And sticky?

althegeordie: Do you actually know what frankincense looks like?

Bert: er, no.

althegeordie: Then this is frankincense.

Bert: it looks very similar to my myrrh.

(BGB drops the box.)

CHCB: And so the Wise Men told everyone they knew that a Saviour had been born.

Enzyme: I didn't. I merely said a child had been born, possibly in 4BC actually, and that historically speaking this child may have been the individual that the Christian church came to associate with the biblical figure of Jesus.

CHCB: (ignoring him) but Herod heard of the birth of this child and unleashed his wrath.

Davros' Granddad: (stroking his beard menacingly) Kill all the firstborn! Oooooooo, yes.

(He is pelted with popcorn and Tourettes is forcibly removed from the audience.)

CHCB: But Mary and Joseph escaped into Egypt and they all lived happily ever after (until 33 years later when there was a minor skirmish with some Romans and a run-in with a cross).

(Everyone appears on stage for a lisping rendition of Away in a Manger.)

Mr chthonic: Beautiful! You've made me so proud! Next week, as a reward, you can have a really good QOTW.

The End.

(, Wed 1 Apr 2009, 11:40, 34 replies)
My mate Rembrandt the tattooist
My best mate is a lad named Steve. Not the sharpest tool in the box, gets confused easily. But he's a fucking great artist and also a monumental pervert. It was only right and proper that these two attributes combined and he followed a career as a tattooist. Now he gets to be artistic all over young ladies bottoms, boobs and ocassionally puts a bit of ink in a place where the sun doesn't shine. One time Steve explained:

"The hardest part of my job is my cock - usually when I'm asking some nubile young emo girl to move her panties to one side while I put a butterfly just above her growler."

The lad is quite simply a class act.

A while back Steve was giving the hot beef injection to a primary school teacher in Tufnell Park. Not during lessons, I hasten to add, but afterwards. She knew about Steve's talents and one night in the pub asked if he'd help out with the nativity play. Steve looked a bit confused:

"You want me to give the kids tattoos?"

"No," she shook her head. She wanted Steve to help out paint a few sets. Obviously, I was sitting there too and somehow got roped into the deal.

So, a dark and rainy North London night in late November, Steve and I turn up at the school with a few pots of paint and are shown to the hall. Steve's latest squeeze introduces us to the deputy head who's organising the nativity, a strange looking old woman who looked like oddly like my uncle Geoff. She stood infront of a big blank canvas that was hanging over one end of the hall. She spread out her hands, framing the canvas as if she were Speilberg preparing a shot.

"I want something grand!" she said. "I want something that stands out!"

Steve nodded, I stood at the back wondering if they had a some place I could go and have a smoke.

The deputy head continued.

"I want and opus prime!"

Fuck me, Steve was a professional tattoist who specialised in putting winged insects and love harts round the female pantline. Rembrandt he definately was not.

"Opus prime?" Steve asked, I knew he didn't have a fucking clue what this made old lady was on about. But he nodded and smiled, he actually seemed cheered. "I can do that! No sweat!"

And then we were left alone, Steve and I, to *ahem* work our magic. As soon as the coast was clear I went out to have a fag and left Steve to come up with the initial design.

When I came back I very nearly shat myself laughing.

"Whaddya think?" asked Steve, busying himself with the outline, teetering on top of a set of ladders.

"Its very... nice... Steve..."

"Come and gissa hand, Spanky."

And I did. And we worked our bollocks off. And all the time I realised how much of a monumental cunt I was. Steve, however, seemed to be really getting into it.

"Think I might come and watch this nativity," he said. "Sounds like it might be a real laugh!"

Oh yes, Steve - I'm sure it will!

After a couple of hours of painting, Steve doing the hard stuff and me filling in the big spaces with colour, the canvas was complete. Class 4B had their nativity backdrop. And it was fucking awsome, I have to say. Steve really is a fucking great artist.

The deputy head returned and stood in the doorway. She looked shocked. Steve's other half appeared and her teeth started to grind, she shot us both a 'you are fucking dead!' look.

"I don't understand..." stuttered the deputy head. "What's this?"

Steve put down his brush and beamed: "It's great, isn't it? Think I've done him justice!"

And the four of us stood back and admired his handywork. It was a fucking awsome sight. An action scene. The leader of the Transformers, crouching on the ground, a defiant fist raised in the air, helecopters and fighter jets zooming round in the background, several explosions blooming, destruction, death and utter mayhem.

"Opus prime, indeed," I said, and put my arm round Steve's shoulder.

You could've heard a pin drop.
(, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 11:34, 10 replies)
B3ta nativity play: Act 2

(Act 1 is here)

Scene: a classroom with a cleared space for a stage at the front. Rows of chairs sit facing this. On the chairs are seated parents who are whispering in anticipation at the nativity play to follow. Mr chthonic coughs and slience falls over the room. A few seconds later, CHCB is pushed forward and she stumbles reluctantly onto the stage.

CHCB: The story we are about to tell took place many hundreds of years ago, but it has been told and retold more than any other story in the world.

SpankyHanky: (whispering to Pooflake) Except for 'swipes story about the bedshitter

Mr chthonic: SsSShhhhh!

CHCB: It is the story of Mary (BGB bounces on to the stage, grinning and waving) who was betrothed to the carpenter Joseph (Pooflake shuffles on looking exhausted). God was pleased with her and sent an angel with good news.

PJM: Be not afraid!

BGB: I'm not. Er, I mean, who are you?

PJM: I am the Archangel Gabriel and I have come to tell you that you are with child.

BGB: That'd be a miracle. (Pooflake looks shifty.)

PJM: Yes. And you will call him Jesus.

BGB: Are you sure?

PJM: What? Yes. Definitely.

BGB: It's not the best name for a Yorkshire lad, is it?

PJM: (stares wildly at Mr chthonic who motions him to continue.) Now you must got to Bethlehem for the census, though quite frankly how the government aren't going to cock that up I don't know. (He exits the stage, one wing hanging off.)

CHCB: And so Mary and Joseph travelled by donkey to Bethlehem.

(The children all sing an interminably long and dreary version of Little Donkey as BGB and Pooflake wander round and round the stage before stopping at a crudely drawn inn door. They knock on the door. It is opened by SpankyHanky.)

SpankyHanky: (in the style of Al Pacino) Whaddya want?

Pooflake: My wife is pregnant and we need a place to stay for the night.

SpankyHanky: (leers at Mary and casts his eyes up and down her heavily cushion-pregnant body) Well, I might take her in the back. And the donkey too. It'll cost you though.

Pooflake: Please. We're desperate. Just let us in. The donkey can do tricks.

SpankyHanky (dubiously) Really?

Pooflake: Yeah, this unborn child taught him everything he knows. The donkey jumps when you yell at him. Have you never heard of "the Little Lord Jesus' ass leap on a 'hey'!"

SpankyHanky: Fuck off. You can have the stable round the back.

Mr chthonic: (Sinks head into hands and motions for a brief interval of weak orange squash served by Fredz with bourbon biscuit crumbs round his mouth.)

(Act 3 is here)

(, Mon 30 Mar 2009, 11:12, 33 replies)
I put my head in my hands and sobbed.

"Are you alright?" asked the man behind the desk. "I know this sort of situation can be emotional... Would you like me to get you a glass of water."

I shook my head, I felt numb and suddenly violently ill.

"You don't understand," I murmered. "You don't understand..."

But lets go back to the previous evening -

I'd arranged to meet Gina at a nice restaurant in Farringdon. A blind date arranged on an internet dating site. We'd exchanged emails and photos, she seemed nice and see seemed to like me.

I sat at a cosy table for two, candles, breadsticks, a bottle of lager. I was nervous as hell. Gina was a high-flying civil servant, she was responsible for alot of people and I have to admit I was ever-so-slightly intimidated.

After I'd started my second bottle of lager I glanced up at the big ornate clock - Gina was twenty minutes late... Shit... I've been stood up...

But then the doors swished open and in walked Gina wearing a trim pinstripe business suit. Her eyes levelled on me, she smiled and strode over.

"Sorry I'm late, Spanky. Got stuck in work," she reached up behind her gorgeous jet black hair and released the pin she had holding it in place. Great lovely curls spilled down over her shoulders and I felt my cock twitch.

"No problem," I beamed. "Please, take a seat."

We ate an amazing meal, chatted and laughed. Things were going very well. After we'd eaten Gina suggested we go to the bar next door and find a comfy sofa. Yay!

So, we move the evening next door. Gina buys all the drinks and after an hour or so we're both pretty pissed. At one point I'm considering showing Gina my pink elephant routine (that's how pissed I am by this stage), but before I can pull out my pockets and wrestle with the trunk in my pants, Gina leans forward and jams her tounge into my mouth. Its electric, her tounge probs round, making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Her hand finds my knee and starts working up towards my crotch.

Suddenly, she stops.

"I just need to visit the ladies room," Gina says with a wink.

Moments later she returns, adjusts her skirt, and sits down next to me. She reaches over and takes my wrist and puts something hot and moist in my palm. I look down.

"I thought you might like these," she says.

Its her panties.

"I really don't like wearing them," she smiles wickedly. "Would you like to come back to mine?"

Oh fuck yes!!! Yes I would!!!

Then we're in a taxi heading over to Gina's posh flat in Kensington. I slip my hand up her skirt and touch her, she's wet and hot and... SHAVED!!! Wooooo!!!

Gina pays for the taxi and we step into her building. I look up at the place and realise Gina must be earning an absolute shitload. The last time I'd been in a place as posh as this was when I was up in court after that nasty incident with the Swedish tourist and the bicycle clips.

Gina takes my hand and leads me up the stairs. She stops half way up, hitches up her skirt and reveals her perfect arse.

"Eat me from behind, Spanky," she demands.

Well, being a gentleman, I oblige. Gina tastes sweet and hot and she squirms under my furtive tongue. After a few moments Gina says:
"You've teased me enough, you cunt - take me to the bedroom and fuck me!"


She grabs my arm firmly, digging her nails in, and leads me to her lair. She rips her cloths off and splays out on the black satin sheets, rubbing herself. "Come and fuck me, you working class piece of shit!"

Now, under other circumstances I would've been slightly pissed off by this statement. But Gina was fucking HOT! I shrugged my clothes off and dived onto the bed. "Put your hot cock inside me!" Gina demanded. "Fuck me now, you shit!"

And I did. Hard. Very hard. Even up the wrong un.

In the morning I came awake and grappled for my cloths. "Gina, I've gotta go! I've got an appointment somewhere and I really can't miss it."

Gina lit a cigarette. "Oh yeah?" She snorts. "Fine by me - I don't have any further use for you - not unless you want me to sit on your face for a while?"

I very nearly took my cloths back off, but I'd been waiting for the appointment for a couple of months already. It took all my willpower to tear myself away.

And then I went to my meeting.

I met with the nice man, he went through a few preliminaries and handed me over the folder. I opened it and skimmed through. I was excited as fuck. And then I stopped dead and my heart went to my mouth when I found the photograph.

"This is her?" I asked, feeling a strange kind of antifreeze feeling flood my veins.

The man nods absently. "Yep - that's her. We can arrange a meeting if you like? I've got her details on file."

I shake my head and tears well in my eyes. "No, I know where she lives. I know her..."

"Oh? What a coincidence!" the man suddenly notices my distress and offers me a glass of water. I decline.

"You don't understand," I murmered. "You don't understand..."

I looked down at the photograph of Gina; she was a few years younger, a different hairstyle, but it was definately her.

I look up at the man, "I met her last night and we had sex."

The man looks aghast, "You had sex with your long lost sister?"

I nod, feeling sick to my stomach.

I get up to leave, the man seems dumbstruck. He says: "My son's doing his nativity play tonight," and he chuckles, trying to lighten the mood.

But I wasn't very interested in some fucking nativity play. So I left without a word.
(, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 9:27, 16 replies)
I can trump all of these "I played a tree" or "I played a cow" stories.

In second year junior school I played . . .

A patch of darkness.

Oh yes. Myself and 4 or 5 others dressed entirely in black with black face paint on a dimly lit stage.

I don't think the headmaster liked me.
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 13:58, 3 replies)
Christmas Work
Last Christmas I was absolutely fucking skint. So incredibly poor I was going up to people selling the Big Issue and asking if they could spare some change.

My mate, Phil, suggested I get a second job. He works for an agency who provide butler services to posh people. He said he'd put in a good word. I thanked Phil, asked him if he had any spare change, and wandered off. A few days later I got a call asking if I was available that night for some work. A fella named Lord Fortisque required a babysitter.

Fuck me! Easy money! I readily agreed and a car was sent round to pick me up. A big fucking posh car. I sat in the back and enjoyed a nice smooth ride over to Lord Fortesque's gaff just near Regents Park. A big expensive townhouse nestled neatly between a couple of foreign embassies.

I stepped out the car, went up to the door and rang the doorbell. After a moment Lord Fortesque appeared, a dapper looking fella who looked like the git from the Monopoly box. He showed me to the kid's room. The baby was sleeping. He said I could have a couple of pop tarts and some pepsi, but if I touched the coke he'd go nuclear on my ass. He pointed out the quietly sleeping dog in the corner, said her name was Gloria. He advised to leave her alone as she tended to sleep through the night but if she was disturbed she'd go a bit mental. Then he fucked off and I settled down to a nice, relaxing evening of watching Sky Sports on a HD TV and watching the cash pour in.

But things are never that easy.

After twenty minutes or so of watching Conference Football, the doorbell goes. I go and answer it and none other than Britney Spears was standing there! Fuck me!

"Can I come in?" she pleads. "There's some freaky guys following me. I just want to hide out from them. Please, I'm begging you."

I ushered Britney in and showed her the living room. She started to bitch about the weather and the weirdos following her. At Ms Spears annoying, whiney voice, Gloria the dog sat bolt upright and started growling. Oh, fuck! I tossed Gloria the nearest chewable object, a tourch that was on the sideboard, to keep her quiet. Gloria caught the tourch in her teeth and started gnawing on it happily.

And then Britney Spears and I sat in silence for a bit. Inevitably the doorbell rang again. Fuck me, I was just getting into the Lewes vs Wrexham match!

I went and opened the door. There was nobody there. Then I heard a strange bleeping noise like R2D2 with a headcold. I looked down.

"Fuck me! Stephen Hawking!"


"We?" I enquired.


I went to close the door, but everybodies favorite Davros rammed my shins with his wheelchair and his two companions cunted me in the fuck. While I was out cold they pushed past me and went to hunt down Britney.

I heard a shrill scream, for one terrible moment I thought Britney was going to start singing. But, thank God, no. Then I passed out...

I came awake about half an hour later. The front door was swinging wide. The unwanted guests appeared to have left. Somehow the lights had been turned off and the only illumination was from the tourch I'd given the dog, Gloria earlier - she was running round and round like a lunatic, casting a strange, nauseating light round the place. Shit, the baby! I rushed upstairs and found the kid sleeping soundly. I sagged and let out a deep sigh of relief.

Then I went back downstairs to find the fusebox. No luck - the house was MASSIVE. I considered grappling the torch from Gloria's mouth, but she was just too damn quick. So instead I sat down in the big comfy chair in the living room and rubbed my sore shins. Then I noticed a note and a number of small wrapped presents sitting on the dresser.

They wern't there before. I went over and had a look. There was a note -

'Sorry for the trouble. We've sorted things out with Britney and she's come back to our hotel for a fourway. Just to show there's no hard feeling we brought some presents for the baby. Regards, S Hawking.'

This was all a bit fucking weird. I picked up the phone and called the fuzz. And promptly lost my job with the agency when they found out what I'd said, I think they thought I was a complete nutjob:

"Hello, this is the emergency services..."

I was still knackered and panting:

"Three wise men followed... a star... delivered gifts... child of the Lord... while Gloria shone... around... Hello...? Hello...?"

They actually put the phone down on me. The cunts.

EDIT: This post may contain traces of lie.
(, Mon 30 Mar 2009, 14:51, 10 replies)
I was lucky...
When I got a scholarship to Grammar School, the whole xmas play thing fell by the wayside. Unless, of course you wanted to get involved in drama. I did.

One of the productions we had in my lower 6th was a play written by my (sadly missed) head of drama. It was an adaptation of Out of Africa, but with a steamy love interest thrown in. Oh yes. The reason it needed a steamy love interest is because no fucker can understand the book otherwise, and it needed some kind of plot to keep it together. Personally, I think it was so that the head of drama could watch teenage boys prance around wearing loincloths.

Anyway, I digress.

I was playing Blixen, the main protagonist. He falls in love with a girl from the Kikuyu tribe. Obviously, their love was forbidden, and they had to keep their furious games of hide the sausage under wraps. Sex with natives was a big no-no.

In this play, life imitated art. The girl who was playing the Kikuyu woman who I was supposed to fall in love with was, quite frankly, stunning. I mean, even though I later changed teams she was gorgeous. And she clearly had a thing for me too. As I found on the first night.

One particular scene, I was supposed to hold her close to me in an embrace as the lights dimmed. As the curtain fell, she squeezed my cock through my safari pants and whispered "Carrot, my Dad's in the audience but I've got his car keys. Fancy some fun?"

Hell yeah. His Dad drove a vintage Jaguar. Absolutely gorgeous car. Anyway, we got onto the back seat, where she proceeded to expertly fellate me. We did this every night during the production, including on the last night, when young Carrot lost his virginity. Spluff.

And that is my story of

Native E-type lays.

*Awaits spanging*
(, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 16:13, 9 replies)
The ‘Inappropriate Situation Danger Horn’
When I were a lad, our school did a play every year. It alternated between Welsh and English (as it was a Welsh school, not some bizarre Welsh obsessed English School).

I was in a couple of plays/musicals for the first few years of secondary school but never a major part. I was usually on stage as I didn’t really suffer from stage fright and I could carry the odd tune. I also douched regularly.

However I unfortunately had my card marked before I could peak. I was playing the head ‘brother’ in the production of ‘Joseph’. The reason why I was playing the head brother was the fact that I could sing in a ‘comedy’ French accent.

It was the opening night. My family were in tow, clapping at the right times, and in the front row. I was wearing a comedy French black and white stripey top, a beret, and a pair of very tight cloth trousers. Sadly my ‘wife’, was pretty much the hottest girl in the school. Oh dear. We can probably tell what happened can’t we?

I got the ‘inappropriate situation danger horn’ when I was dancing closely with this gorgeous girl.

I have never ever had such a diamond cutting erection in all of my life. I tried to hunch my body so it wouldn’t be so noticeable, but I had to go to front centre stage halfway through the song, and the shocked gasps and laughs from the mums and dads highlighted my plight. I felt like I could burst through my trousers in some horrid Hulk-like transformation and sweep people off stage with it. I actually felt unbalanced.

I went incandescently red in the face and forgot the lyrics to my solo. The conductor of the orchestra (the redoubtable Mr. ‘Bumface’ Morgan), noticed I missed my cue and got the orchestra to replay the cue again. And again. But I was too shell-shocked. It was literally the worst and most embarrassing thing that could possibly happen. I was like a moth at ground zero. I remember *enjoying* the feeling in some perverse way. Then everything went fuzzy and we were all called off the stage and the next scene commenced.

No reasons were ever officially given but I was bumped from the play and my understudy had to fill in. I was teased by parents and children alike. Thank god I never had a gun.

(, Mon 30 Mar 2009, 10:45, 3 replies)
I only really "performed" once in a nativity...
While in the Sixth Form I was a member of the school’s technical team. Five of us in the team – me, my partner Hannah, her identical twin sister Kate and my mates Ian and Dave. As a part of its “Reaching out to the Community” scheme the school had, the technical team was pimped out to various local primary schools. Over a two week period the five of us ended up seeing 23 and a half nativity plays in our mini-tour, running two sets of equipment to illuminate and amplify the shrieks of the little darlings.

My average day would be:

6.45 Pick up the second and occasionally third members of the team I was working with that day
7.00 Arrive at primary school to find it locked. Caretaker has forgotten that we’re arriving. Play hopscotch in playground.

7.10 Speak to police that little old lady has called after seeing us playing hopscotch. Have a chat and a cup of tea, discuss the school and find out whose kids are performing where.

8.00 Caretaker arrives to open school. Begin unloading several thousands of pounds worth of (rented) lighting and sound and sound equipment.

8.30 Find an SUV parked in frond of our van (actually one of the Sixth Form’s minibuses) as Mrs Horrobleigh has parked in the teachers car park to discuss why little Jimmy isn’t being pushed hard enough to do his Latin GCSE in year 6. Unable to get any equipment out, so go and have a cup of tea.

9.00 SUV still parked in front of van. Attempt to locate parent.

9.15 After arguing with parent, use the powers of persuasion to point out that we’ll be lighting little brat so his home made organic hemp goat costume will outshine all the other parents feeble efforts.

9.30 Unloading finally complete. Begin setup. Attempt not to hit kids with scaffolding.

10.00 Shout at tenth child who’s running under where we’re setting up the equipment. Ponder converting one of the moving lights in to a kid-seeking taser.

10.13 Teacher asks when we’ll be ready. Is told at about 11.00.

10.22 Same teacher asks again. Is given same answer. Mentally adjust designs to modify taser to teacher seeking.

10.50 Teacher brings children in to the hall where we’re still hanging lanterns. Is politely asked to take them away because I don’t fancy cleaning up the blood.

11.00. Finished setup of a temporary scaffolding, holding all the required lighting and sound equipment, a curtained off control booth and some inventive wiring to power it all from 13amp sockets. Prays there are no health and safety people around.

11.20 After cajoling the children on to the stage, we turn all the lights on them at full power. Despite being told not to, they’re all looking straight at the lights. The screams of blinded children never fail to amuse.

11.23 Clean up urine puddles from above.

11.30 Start a rehearsal. Screaming fit from Mary when Joseph pulls her hair.

13.00 Lunch. Cook a couple of pizza’s on the lanterns.

14.00 Hyperactive kids come in for a “dress rehearsal”. A second screaming fit from Mary when she’s told she won’t be allowed to do a spotlight solo.

15.30 Kids go home, and we go to the pub to relax over a couple of pint of Wychwood’s finest.

18.00 Arrive back at the school to do final checks for the show.

18.30 Parents arrive with children. Explain to parent that they cannot film the play from the box.

18.40 Tell 18th parent that we will not be recording all the singing for them.

19.00 Show starts. Three children led off in tears at the start.

19.20 Baby Jesus’ head falls off. Mary cries.

19.30 Show finally over, with a big song and dance number lead by the tap dancing cows.

20.00 Finally get parents out of the hall, after several complaints that the lights were too bright for the video cameras to compensate.

22.00 Get kit packed up and in van. Home to sleep and repeat the next day.

To make up for the above, I’ll give you tale from the very last show. It was in local church and two of the primary schools had combined the forces of their year sixes to put on a big performance. This needed the whole team, as this tour de force needed set changes, so I was going to be stuck back stage instead of my usual position in the lighting desk. Hannah volunteered to help me, hiding in a small alcove at the side of the stage, ready to dash out and perform the scenery changes at the pivotal moments. Being in such close quarters made for some intense making out moment.

Come the show, she joined me in our little cubbyhole just before the show started, crouching down next to me. Once the show had started, I made my move. My hand gently brushed her thigh, stroking the fine weave of her tights and feeling the warmth of her skin beneath. Unable to make any noise, a quickening of breathing and a smile in the dim reflected light were my only indications that my attention as appreciated. My hand moved further, stroking the fleshy underside of her leg through the nylon material. Sliding gently over her buttocks as the chorus sprang in to a chorus of “O little star of Bethlehem”, an exhalation of warm breath flowed past my ear. My finger slipped through a hole in the crotch of her tights, moving aside the silk that guarded the fragrant and moist areas that lead to her little button of pleasure. A few minutes more and that song will forever remain in my head as a the warm wetness flowed over my finger.

Sadly the song ended at that point, and our first scene change was upon us. I reluctantly withdrew my probing digits, and got up to begin the change. As I moved behind the curtain, I caught a glimpse of the control desk, Hannah sitting there staring intently at the stage for her cue.

Hang on. Hannah. At the control desk. Wearing trousers. Hannah never wore skirts during shows… only Kate did. Shit. Shit shit shit. Oh holy crap. I’ve just gotten to second base with my girlfriends twin sister. In a church. Oh shit.

I’m not sure how I made it through the show, but I managed to find an excuse to be on the other side of the stage all the night. I had to be practically dragged to pub after; I felt I couldn’t show my face to either. Kate said nothing though, although she did look at me with an odd smile throughout the evening. I had to spill all after – how could I not? I asked her if she wanted to split - I wondered how our relationship could continue after this, I felt awful. As it turned out, it wasn’t a problem. A lot of twins were close, and these two were even closer. But that’s for another QOTW….
(, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 13:16, 2 replies)
My dad found a way to be helpful
Whenever the nativity play rolled around, you could guarantee that those pupils with parents from a better off background would actually be wearing outfits that resembled the part they were playing. If you were like me, however, schooled in the art of bin-bag Halloween’s, then your outfit was never particularly suitable for the role you were trying to encapsulate and you may as well wear a sign around your neck to describe the outfit you intended to sport for all the audience had a clue.

That was until my Dad realised that perhaps he could help.

I was eight years old at the time, and having usually left the costume making to my overworked mother, the discovery of my part in this year's play made my Dad realise he may be of use. With the enthusiasm of a parent wanting only the very best for their offspring, my Dad got to work making a costume surely to steal the show, regardless of whether I actually had any lines in the play or not. Many subsequent evenings he came home late, tirelessly using his work facilities to sculpt his masterpiece.

As the performance day approached, I began to worry that the costume may not be ready in time, and once again I would have to make do with some vague approximation of my military part. It wasn't until the evening before the dress rehearsal that my Dad eventually came home with his masterpiece.

When I saw it I was ecstatic. It was everything an eight year old could ever want. I tried it on, and spent the evening buzzing and wanting to show my friends the next day.
I borrowed my Dad's huge holiday bag and packed it with the costume first thing the next morning, beaming all the way to school and impatient for the dress rehearsal to start. I couldn't hide my enthusiasm from my classmates, but wouldn't reveal my masterpiece until the dress rehearsal was starting.

The teachers were preoccupied while we were getting ready, so I was able to don my outfit without their attention whilst dazzling my peers around me.

However the look on their faces when they finally did pay attention was one of both shock and fear.

In front of them was a child with a broadsword. A sharp, bludgeon friendly broadsword. A broadsword so heavy, the child could barely hold it with one arm. A child known to have quite severe temper tantrums. Not only did this child have a broadsword, but also a shield as tall as he was and a sharp child-shish-kebabing spear also. In front of them was a smiling little terrorist who they could only assume was ready to get old testament on their asses. In my Dad's infinite wisdom, he had armed his eight year old son with deadly weaponry and sent him off to school.

You see, my Dad was a sheet metal worker, so not much use in costume making when I was a penguin, but when he had an opportunity to be useful, he went at it with unadulterated enthusiasm. I was in tears when they confiscated it and ended up once again with an outfit that barely represented what it was intended to, though for that brief moment, I had the best costume.
(, Mon 30 Mar 2009, 17:51, 3 replies)
I really hope this is true.
My sister is a teacher (and delights in winding me up, hence the disclaimer). She does however claim the following is, if you'll pardon the pun, gospel.

At her school they were doing the nativity play on two successive nights.

To make this fairer Child A (who had the plum role of Joseph the first night) was due to be demoted to Innkeeeper the second night to give another kid a shot at being God's cuckold.

The only problem is that Child A loves the crowd adulation for his triumph at Joseph the first night, and REALLY doesn't want to let Child B take the role the next night. It doesn't quite come to fisticuffs but there is much tug-of-war with outfits, teacher intervention and sulking.

Order is eventually restored. Child B, proudly betowelled as Joseph, makes a good start. Until he gets to the inn and asks if there is any room.

"Yes!" beams Child A.

"Mary, you can come in. Joseph - you can fuck off."
(, Mon 30 Mar 2009, 2:18, 5 replies)
PC? What PC...?
Every year at my Junior school, we'd put on a play vaguely connected to religious figures in some way. In our second year there we did a story about Saint George and the Turkish Knight.

Naturally the blonde haired, blue eyed Ayran wonderkid got the role of Saint George, and was predictable noble and adorable. The teachers and parents got a little more than they bargained for when I was cast as the Turkish Knight however...

First off there was the costume. My mum was determined to make a show of this, so set about constructing a fake chainmail vest using an anorak and some sequins, some big turqiose pantaloons, curvy slippers, a tunic complete with the star and crescent of Islam on it (oh yes, I was bringing religious hate-war into things at an early age), a spiked helmet with a turban wrapped around it and to cap it all off, one of the most convincing beards you've ever seen on a child. In short, I look terrifying - like an angry dwarf who'd just emerged from the Crusades into late 80s South East England.

There was a problem though... I do not look, in any way, shape or form Turkish. Even with that plentiful pre-pubescent beard. How to solve such a dilemma Mum?

Gravy Browning.

Yes, that's right, I blacked up for the school play, such was my commitment to getting the character right.

I wasn't done there though, not by a long shot... I wanted this to be a performance of Robert De Niro like accuracy - a testament to my infantile acting ability.

"Mum, where IS Turkey?"

"It's in Asia, but the bit just next to Greece."

My mind begins to whirr... In Asia, but next to Greece... Well, I've snuck downstairs and seen a Greek man on the telly before. Something about a kebab shop... called Stavros... If Turkey's next to Greece, I should probably sound a bit like him... But then... Asia... Hmm... Asia... That's like India and places isn't it? So, somewhere between a Greek and Indian accent... I can do that.

I'd like to think that the day they saw a fully armed, blacked up seven year old alternating between Stavros the Greek and a generically Indian stereotype while waving a wooden sword at a terrified looking moppet on stage is one that will live in the minds off all the people who were there that night.

For some reason our second night had to be pulled... Shame, I thought it was ace.
(, Sun 29 Mar 2009, 10:10, 2 replies)
When I was seven I landed the part of the clown in Lyncrest Lower School, Northampton's, ground breaking epic - The Nativity.

It was a cast of literally thousands, well, hundereds, well, about thirty.

My job as clown was simple. I had to help the donkey (played by my erstwhile mates Terry and Dave), on and off the stage. The donkey was blind. The eye slits were so fucking small Terry couldn't see where he was going.

So, on stage comes Mary and Joseph, followed by me, the clown leading the donkey.

It was awe inspiring.

It was the round the time that those big clunky video cameras first came out. We bathed under the bright hot glow of literally ten-or-eleven hand held cameras, the spotlight on us.

I'd done my bit, leading the donkey on stage, so I went and stood in my place, fished into my big clown pocket, and pulled out a porkpie my mum had given me for lunch. Now, this wasn't scripted, but Dave in the arse-end of the donkey scoped my pie and wanted a bit.

So as Joseph and Mary are getting a bit of hassle from some cunt of an innkeeper, in the background a clown and a donkey's arse are slapping each other about over a fine bit of reconstituted pig, some gelatine, and some flaky pastry.

The videos seemed to focus on us and completely leave the main actors to their own innkeeping woes.

"Spanky!" I heard a loud hiss, it was my mum, sitting in the second or third row. "Spanky! Stoppit!!!"

I pulled myself away from tugging at Dave's ears and noticed my mum. She looked well pissed off. Oh, shit. I'm gonna be in trouble after this. But I knew something that would win back her affections, a dead-fucking-cert. I'd heard my mum talk about this nice old man who'd been locked away and shouldn't be. She told me he was a great man of peace.

I munched on my porkpie,contemplating, Dave having wrestled part of the pastry off me - he seemed happy with that.

I tried to remember what my mum said, over and over and over again. The man's name was hard to remember.

But just as Mary and Joseph secure a lovely little place in a stable and are being led off to bed down for the night, a clown pushes past them, takes centre stage, raises his chubby little seven year old fist and squeaks:


Strange thing was, that actually got me into even more trouble once the gig had finished...
(, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 10:41, 7 replies)
Herod! The Musical
Way back in the mists of time, my Primary School adopted a 'new' type of nativity play one year, opting for a production based around one of the stories covered in those 'music for schools' programmes that used to be on Radio 4. Those progarmmes which gave the teacher an hour off every Thursday morning while we all sang along with the radio, reading the words from our little books that accompanied the series and story being broadcast.

The story in question for this year was a nativity based story, but with a twist... It was a 'full on' musical.

Roles were being picked, kids were being 'auditioned' for said roles and I drew the rather short straw as Herod.

Come the day and I was festooned with as much pound shop bling as the school budget would allow to look the part of the King. You name it, I wore it: Tea Towels, gold braid, silver (tin) foil, gold painted cardboard, and I even remember gold tinsel ending up in the costume at some point. I must have looked like Jodie Marsh's christmas tree.

Anyway, with the stage being set in the local old church it eventually got around to my 'solo' piece. Up I step to the platform (the pulpit as it happens) to deliver my rousing song.

And to this day I can still remember the first verse and chorus, which was as follows:

"Things are get-ting desperate,
Don't they know I'm bo-oss,
Ignore these fan-cy ru-mours,
Or it will be your loss..."

Chrous (all)
"They say a new King's been born,
How ridiculous can you get.
Well I've got a trick or two up my sleeve,
'Cause I'm not finished yet".

It took a while to realise I was essentially portraying a glitzy showbiz baby killer. Think the 'John Barrowman' of Baby Killers.

It didn't end there either. At the end of the song, one of the kids (all scripted, you understand) came out from under the pulpit where I was standing and delivered his one and only line to the throng of proud parents assembled...

... "He's after your babies"
(, Thu 26 Mar 2009, 18:19, 2 replies)
Proud Father
My dad moved to the UK from Italy when he was fifteen. Couldn't speak a word of the Queen's, was pretty much dropped in it to help support a large extended family back in southern Italy; it was pretty common for my relatives over there to bake dough for bread cut with sawdust to make their food last that little bit longer. Times were hard. My dad ended up in the bloated industrial heartland of the Midlands, working in a foundry in Coventry. It was the type of place where industrial accidents were par for the course. I recall my old man telling me how one time he saw this poor fella's arm melt, just dissolve away when he slipped and fell into a pool of molten metal. It was a hard time, the late fifties / early sixties in Coventry.

And my dad was one really hard bastard.

As a result of being made to be a man at the age most boys are still sitting in their bedroom's, playing Playstation and masturbating, my dad was pretty aloof.

I didn't really have much contact with him when I was growing up. Except, of course, for the occasional telling off for doing something incredibly fucking stupid, immature, or downright evil.

But the fondest memory of my dad while I was growing up was when he came to a nativity. Most of the times he worked weird shifts and couldn't come - probably explains why I was usually such a little terror. But this year I was good as gold. I was a shepherd, and a fucking brilliant one. I shepherded my arse off on stage, all the time sneaking a look at my dad, sat with his arm round my mum, beaming and smiling at me. I wasn't used to him beaming and smiling - it made me feel great, it really did.

I had a line, I'll never forget it:

"Look, the sheep have all gone to sleep!"

And I delivered it perfectly and went and stood at the back like a good little boy.

And at the end we all bowed, all us little tykes on stage. And I watched nervously as my dad, a great big bear of a man, got to his feet and clapped and smiled.

It really was an amazing feeling to see my old man was proud of me, a smile on his face, not looking tired and grimey like I usually saw him when he'd come home from a shift.

He's a great bloke now I'm an adult - but as a child I'd say that was the only real time we made a connection.

Me as the perfectly behaved little shepherd, him as the hard-as-nails foundry man who'd knocked off work early (forefitting a shitload of pay no doubt which he probably couldn't afford to be without), to see his boy prance round with a tea towel on his head.

Thanks, dad - you're a star!
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 23:42, 6 replies)
As an adult I try and avoid rooms filled with kids to the same extent I try to avoid sexual partners sporting crusty, puss-filled genitle sores and a custard-coloured vaginal discharge. But kids and VD have something in common - sometimes, try as you might, you just cannot avoided them. All you can do is roll your sleeves up, get stuck in, and hope the clawing sense of shame washes off in the morning (and the crusty puss round your cock and pubes, depending on circumstances).

About nine years ago I was seeing a lovely girl named Maria. She suffered from one of these terrible conditions. No, not VD - she had a kid. A little bruiser named Bruno. I actually got on really well with the little twat, truth told.

But this relationship threw up a new and interesting dynamic. For the year or so I was seeing Maria I became - God help him - a surrogate father to the boy named after Britain's slowest, most annoying, maddest boxing champ.

On a rainy night in December I found myself sat in a school hall, bored, watching the heavy rain hammer against the large windows and the trees outside dance like electrocuted spastics. Occasionally, the motion sensors set up outside would trigger and throw searing bright light across the pitch dark schoolyard. It was like a scene from a scary movie. On stage the little darlings were going through their paces. Maria was sat next to me, holding my hand, beaming as little Bruno wowed the crowd with his rendition of a fucking raindeer. All very nice.

Maria leaned close to me and whispered: "What do you think?"

I whispered back, after some consideration, "I really, really, REALLY need a piss - I shouldn't have drank all that coffee on the way over. The boy's doing good," I said. "I'm just off to have a slash. I'll be back asap."

And I slinked off to find the toilets.

Now, the thing about primary schools is they fucking scare me. Its a bit like being in Land of the Giants, only I'm the giant. All the coathooks are low down, the door handles are set lower in the doors, all the pictures on the walls are at a nice height for the little fuckers to gaze longingly at. It just freaks me out.

There was no one about - everyone involved with the school was busy doing something for the nativity production, so I figured I'd have to find my own way to the bogs. After a bit of wondering about, I found some toilets. Unfortunately the little kids were using it as a changing room. I opened the door, reaching for my cock and relief, when a couple of angelic faces looked up at me. The two little boys were stripped to their pants, struggling into their costumes. I quickly released my cock, backed away and shut the door. Shit! I really didn't fancy being accused of being a kiddie-fiddler. I stood outside, feeling my bladder swell even more.

Fuck it, I thought, Maria's going to be pissed if I take much longer and my bladder's about to explode - only one thing for it...

Back in the hall the nativity continues. Mary and Joseph and the reindeers (don't ask), have just found a place for the night in the stables. But just as Joseph starts thanking the Innkeeper every head in the place turns soundlessly to the windows.

The motion sensors have just gone off again, throwing brilliant light over the rainsoaked schoolyard.

Only this time there's somebody stood outside, and he seems to be looking into the hall.

There's a small gasp from one of the parents. I imagine somebody may have suggested calling the police in hushed tones.

Because the man stood outside in the corner of the schoolyard, appearing to be peering into the hall, had a childs' raincoat covering his head and face and he had his cock in his hands...

Thankfully, the lights went off very quickly, and the mysterious pervert at the window disappeared too. Maria told me all about him on the way home.

I was, of course, utterly disgusted.

But God is a vengeful cunt. In my haste to get zipped up and back in the hall, I accidentally dangled my bell end in a patch of stinging nettles.

I sat there for the rest of the night scratching and squirming like I'd caught a bout of the clap.

"Are you ok?" asked Maria.

I stopped scratching: "Yes, I'm fine, thanks - just got a splinter from one of those chairs in the hall," I lied.

"I know what you mean - its amazing how much pain you can get from just one little prick, isn't it?"

I simply nodded and laughed nervously.
(, Mon 30 Mar 2009, 10:17, 3 replies)
St Pancras Station
Walking through St Pancras Station just before Christmas on my way to celebrate the birth of our Lord with a festive Big Mac and fries, I noticed a load of schoolkids from the local primary school singing hymns on the concourse. A troop of little wide-eyed angels in their bright red school jumpers.

The poor little fuckers looked petrified.

Obviously, it didn't help when as I walked past I ran a finger across my throat mimicking sliting their throats as I looked at them menacingly.

Their teacher wondered why several of them burst out crying spontaneously completely fucking up the sweet rendition of Little Donkey.

I chuckled to myself as I carried on walking.

I am a very bad man.
(, Sun 29 Mar 2009, 15:02, 2 replies)
Weird ideas
'While I was on the bog the other day,' writes 'mudskipper', 'it occured to me that when you take the word ‘weapons’, and spell it phonetically, ‘weppins’, it looks like a name you’d give to a pet rabbit.

What really, really, REALLY weird thoughts have you had?'

Comment space reserved for an alternative QOTW should you want it.
(, Sat 28 Mar 2009, 2:06, 18 replies)
Seasonal QOTW

Yeah I was a sheep har fucking har har.

Seriously if I wanted it to be Christmas 24/7 I'd buy several dogs and dress them up as reindeer, drug my housemate and dress him up as Santa and then get so fucking drunk I'd believe I was actually the Christmas fucking elf here to bring you all a good slice of good will and fucking harmony but seeing as it's MARCH I am bitter and twisted and as such refuse to read any of these fucking dull as shit QOTWs that seem to have not only excluded women in the past weeks penis malarky but now you're discriminating again Jehovah's Witnesses. Way to go asshole they don't get to dress up as mongoids in the plays they have to sit outside and dream about fucking Mrs Claus or something. Probably suck having to go door to door at the North Pole trying to convert elves though.

I diagress. Fuck you QOTW I'm more likely to get fucking Christmas spirit than you are likely to get a decent fucking suggestion from the hundreds of pages of decent fucking suggestions. Sheesh a question just called "Fucking amuse us you fucktards" would be more fucking inventive than this Christmas shit.

So yeah. Fuck off.
(, Thu 26 Mar 2009, 22:33, 15 replies)
Mix tapes...(or 'I shudder to think what would have happened if it had been 'super-8')...

Last Christmas, I was asked to do prepare for the inevitable ‘you’ve been framed’ moments of the local primary school Nativity by handling the recording of the ‘event’ on the school video camera.

I arrived on the night and was confronted by this monstrous behemoth of a ‘camcorder’. What a piece of archaic shite! – it was about three feet across, weighed a quarter of a tonne, and I’m convinced it was partly crafted from stone, iron and wood by some Olde Worlde blacksmith in the 17th century.

Worst of all, it required Betamax tapes…and as we all know, the world completely run out of stock of those bad boys…in 1982. I was fucked.

With little options or hope, I trudged despondently to the local Blockbusters and asked if they knew of anywhere I could purchase any new tapes. As the tillmonkey shook his head in despair I was then approached by a wizened old gent with a big beard, who had previously been sat in the shop doorway, busying himself by smoking a long pipe and smelling of piss.

“Yeee-arrrrrghhhh, so it’s Betamax tapes ye’s be after it be?” he spluttered menacingly.

Not really understanding, but nodding nervously, I was then taken to one side and informed that if I wanted such outdated media, then I would have to go to a special, hitherto unheard of place in the rough end of town, that was managed by a strange, witchlike woman who went by the name of ‘Natalie Everitt’ (didn’t sound much like a witch to me).

She ran a shop that specialised in antique video tapes. Then, to my utter amazement, He whispered to me that for ‘Betamax’, I’d have to go round the back of the shop, out by the bins, to an area where they keep the Betamax tapes fresh by running them through a process of colour-washing called ‘grey-testing’...(this apparently removes the grey interference that happens to such old useless shite). Following this process, the tapes are locked in a cargo area, and sealed for tax purposes. It wasn't going to be cheap.

It was all so mysterious, I felt like a cross between Indiana Jones, Fox Mulder, and one of the Sopranos doing a dodgy deal in the back streets.

Quietly excited, but realising that this was my one chance of success, I asked for the exact name of the place and location – The old man looked up at me and said:

"It’s called the ‘Nat E, ‘VT’ place…the grey-test store rear vat-hold".

I then proceeded to punch the old cunt to the ground and set fire to his donkey jacket while he was unconcious.

And with that, the QotW finally disappeared up it’s own arse.
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 11:59, 6 replies)
I was in charge of the shepherds.
I ran a tight sheep.
(, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 0:27, 2 replies)
Fish-face tosses the salad
One day whilst walking home from work, Fish-face started to feel horny. Obviously this wasn't an unusual thing to happen to Fish-face as he was an extreme pervert - titillated by pretty much anything. Well, anything to do with homoerotic passion. Or shite.

The seam in the crotch of Fish-face's pants was rubbing against his slimy, meagre cock - making his tongue protrude from his trout-lips with fierce cross-eyed lust. He liked to feel a bit of chafing 'downstairs'. This is why he had applied a mixture of sand and PVA glue to the seam of the underwear to increase the friction. The sand-paper like surface tore into his balls with every stride, increasing Fish-face's lust exponentially.

Spittle began to form on Fish-face's purple lips and he began to mutter obscenities to himself. Before he knew it he was repeating his Fish-face mantra over and over.

"I have trout-lips of a purple hue,
I like to guzzle down man-goo.

My bright pink cheeks and boyish smile,
infer that I'm a paedophile!

My stunted walk and fishy gob,
May make me look a fuckin' nob

But down inside I cannot pass
on a big fat cock right up my ass

I am the scum of the human race,
I am the fucker called 'Fish-face'"

As he said his name he punched the air triumphantly and sniggered to himself.

Then, in the shadows of a derelict shop doorway, Fish-face spied hideous old tramp. His toothless leer and brown-wrinkled visage made his face look like a shrivelled anus. He raised a can of Special Brew in salute to Fish-face and said 'Shhuu wan fak huu fakker?'.

Fish-face was confused by this and leant closer to the foul tramp. "Uhh.. sorry I didn't quite get that" said Fishy, "Could you say it again?".

The tramp threw a filthy arm around fish-face's shoulder and squinted at him. He was obviously having some difficulty in focusing as his eyes kept crossing and uncrossing. The stench of his filthy body rolled up into Fish-face's nostrils.

It was like nothing Fish-face had ever smelt before. It was like a cross between a septic tank, rotting fish and wet dog. Fish-face retched slightly and this seemed to concentrate the tramps' attention sufficiently for him to respond.

"Hyuuu shtoopid fakker" he slurred. "Hyuu can jes suck my arse hyuu fakker!"

"Oooh!" said Fishy. "Tossing the salad eh? I can't say I've tried that before. Why don't we go inside and I'll see what I can do eh?"

With this, Fish-face gestured through the broken shop doorway to the dark, foetid interior. The tramp somehow managed to clamber up Fishy's legs and maintain an upright stance long enough to stagger inside.

Cecil was a Great Dane. If he had been able to understand and respond to language, he may have had something to say to his owner about his frankly ridiculous name. On this particular day, Cecil had broken free from his owner during their daily walk in the park and was prowling around the bad area of town. He had already had his way with all of the stray bitches that he could find but he remained unsatisfied. He trotted on merrily down the street, slavering jaws dripping with saliva and matted curled fur plastered flat against his oily skin.

All of a sudden Cecil saw a dark and dirty shop doorway. The door was shattered and there was a strange sound coming from inside the building. Cecil raised his nose to the air and sniffed the dank vapour into his doggy nostrils.

Sex! Cecil could smell sex and he wanted some. Cautiously he made his way to the doorway and tentatively, he peered inside.

Fish-face was enjoying himself immensely. The horrible tramp was lying face down on the floor of the shop. The place was full of dusty rubble and evidence of desperate human squalor. A filthy mattress lay in one corner; rust-coloured stains adorning it's damp surface and broken bottles and cans littered the area.

As far as Fishy could tell the tramp had passed out as soon as he fell over, but this wasn't going to stop Fishy's fun.
He had pulled down the tramp's sticky trousers and underwear and revealed the bountiful treat inside. A nugget of purest brown had greeted his eyes and the stench was like sweet nectar to Fishy's depraved nostrils.

Moist, matted hair decorated the perimeter of the anus and pimples and boils peeked through the filth like shy faeries from some tainted, magical bush.

Slowly and with his eyes closed, Fish-face lowered his face to the feast. His lips met the tender log protruding from the tramp's rear and he slid them up and down the turd as if lovingly blowing it. Eventually he bit through the fudgy goodness and sucked the dark pleasure into his mouth.

Chewing delicately, he finished the mouthful; swallowing it down with small murmured sounds of pleasure.
Pulling his own trousers down, he began to caress his pathetic morsel of a penis with a clammy hand.

Cecil seized his moment! He sped into the room, his bright red boner already hard and glistening and with another bound he straddled Fish-face's hunched over form. Cecil penetrated Fish-face's anus with one un-lubed stroke and began to vigorously bugger him, panting dementedly and frothing at the mouth.

Fish-face shrilled with pleasure and began to buck furiously against the dog-cock shoved inside his butt. He barely even realised what was happening to him, but couldn't believe how great it felt.

Eventually the beast shuddered, howled and gave one final extra-hard thrust. Fish-face felt his intestines fill with a hot liquid and a satisfied smile crept across his face.

After lying there for what seemed like hours, basking in the post-coital afterglow, Fish-face tried to pull away from Cecil. Somehow the beast was wedged firmly inside his butt and try as he might he could not dislodge himself. Making some pathetic mewling sounds and scrabbling pathetically at the tramp's soiled trousers, Fish-face managed to turn and take in the scene.

Cecil was slumped on top of him, eyes glazed and with his tongue protruding from his mouth. A sliver of panic whipped through Fishy as he realized that the dog was stone-cold. It was dead. Fish-face struggled frantically against the canine appendage inside his tailpipe to no avail. Eventually he collapsed sobbing into the unconscious tramp's slimy crevice.

Crying softly to himself, Fish-face scanned the room for a suitable object with which to free himself. He tried again to push himself from the floor and felt a sharp pain in his hand followed by a slippery, bleeding sensation. He had cut himself on a razor-sharp piece of broken glass lying beneath him amongst the general detritus. With a demented cackle, Fish-face clasped the shard of glass tightly in his feminine fingers. Blood ran in hot rivulets between his fingers, dripping to the floor beneath.

Hooting like an aged prostitute faking an orgasm for the ten-thousandth time he slashed at the meaty length attaching him to the dog. Sawing frantically he cut through the stringy tissue severing it in an orgy of splattered blood. With a desperate heave, Fish-face managed to shoulder the hairy corpse from above him and crawl, coughing and shaking from it's slumped form.

The piece of dog cock inside him, deprived of it's internal pressure, deflated somewhat and slithered slickly out of him. It landed wetly on the floor followed by a litre or so of slightly steaming, chocolate tinged dog-spooge.

Tenderly, Fish-face kissed the unconscious tramp goodbye. He slipped his tongue between the tramp's tobacco-stained lips and swirled it around, tasting the powerful flavour of advanced tooth-decay and severe halitosis. He sighed contentedly and stooped to pick up the severed dog's penis. It would come in handy for what he was planning later.

Roughly, he pulled up his trousers, splattering himself with dog spunk in the process. Licking the worst off his hands, he sauntered out of the derelict shop and into the evening air.

As he walked past a nearby church hall, he noticed a poster which read 'Sunday School Nativity Play - 12 December'.
"Suckers!" thought Fish-face to himself as he ambled off into the night, a spring in his step and a dog-cock in his pocket. He was ready to take on the world.
(, Tue 31 Mar 2009, 12:50, 21 replies)

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