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DISCLAIMER: The following is a work of fiction created solely for artistic purposes, though clearly this term should be applied only in its very loosest form. To the best of my knowledge, Nadine Dorries is not a Nazi in any literal sense of the word, nor has she ever publicly fucked or sucked Michael Gove. The events portrayed herein should therefore not be taken as any kind of accurate interpretation of our immediate physical reality, unless you are in fact a complete idiot with no discernible self-awareness. Nevertheless, since the underlying truth of the matter remains intact, all names have been left unchanged to incriminate the guilty.
You will know that it is time to turn the page when you hear R2-D2 beep, like this. Let’s begin now.
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TELEVISED NAZI SEX ORGY
“ACHTUNG!!!”
Across rolling hillsides they descended to some green, daisy-strewn crevasse embedded deep in the Bavarian heartland. They flocked like pilgrims from hundreds of miles around; the stampede was unstoppable. Paparazzi swarm like flies round the arse of a dysenteric horse while onlookers gawp in wonderment, camera-phones at the ready. It all kicks off with the shrill honk of a rampaging air-horn.
- HNNNYYYYARRRR…!
Right on cue, a cavalcade of screaming obscenity emerges before our very eyes in gaudy, nightmarish technicolour. The inevitable first casualty is Lady GaGa, who’s quickly caught in the crossfire of some anonymous backing dancer’s power-wank and takes a propulsive shot of toss-wad straight to the cornea. Sensing their golden opportunity, the rest of her troupe piles in to dish out a rogue facial while she vainly attempts to hand out awards to a group of underprivileged children last seen rescuing kittens from a burning house-fire. These are the true Heroes of Britain.
“RUIN HER, MATE! RUIN HER!!!” rages the fevered bark of director Leni Riefenstahl as she weaves in and out of the proceedings with a 16mm camera purchased for a Deutschmark-fünfzig on eBay. Her interest in all this is strictly professional. Ever the stickler for accuracy, Goebbels watches intently from the Royal Box, giving a stern nod of approval while idly caressing his bum leg: “Gut. Gut.”
Here’s The Hoff now, resplendent in a gimp-mask, ready to bludgeon his throbbing wang deep into SuBo’s bilious mudflaps. Gibbering excitedly at the prospect, Fearne Cotton grabs an MP3 recorder for an exclusive report on the first public sighting of Knight Rider slopping out the pigpen. Meanwhile, Duncan from Blue sniffs desperately round the sidelines, visibly aroused by the rancorous smell of filth emanating from the spot where Brucie ‘Good Game’ Forsyth has just had his arse turned inside-out by a rubber fist-wielding Piers Morgan.
Unfolding front und centre is an emergency cabinet meeting, the once-pious ministers chanting like baying public schoolboys at the sight of Nadine Dorries and Michael Gove sixty-nining and pissing while gargling “Thatcher! Thatcher!” through mouthfuls of acidic urea. It’s all too much for the gruesome twosome to quaff home in one go, and they’re ultimately left slathering like infants, splashing their acrid accumulation around like Chanel Number fucking Five. The horror. The horror. The whole thing goes out live on BBC simulcast, augmented by expert opinion from a panel consisting of Nigel Farage, Janet Street-Porter and this week’s Apprentice firee. David Dimbleby chairs impassively, taking questions from assorted quasimodos gathered in the audience: “You, sir. Yes, you. The cyclops in the back there, foaming at the mouth. No, not you…” Be sure to include the appropriate hash-tag, and don’t forget to Have Your Say on all relevant forums after the show.
Unfolding front und centre is an emergency cabinet meeting, the once-pious ministers chanting like baying public schoolboys at the sight of Nadine Dorries and Michael Gove sixty-nining and pissing while gargling “Thatcher! Thatcher!” through mouthfuls of acidic urea. It’s all too much for the gruesome twosome to quaff home in one go, and they’re ultimately left slathering like infants, splashing their acrid accumulation around like Chanel Number fucking Five. The horror. The horror. The whole thing goes out live on BBC simulcast, augmented by expert opinion from a panel consisting of Nigel Farage, Janet Street-Porter and this week’s Apprentice firee. David Dimbleby chairs impassively, taking questions from assorted quasimodos gathered in the audience: “You, sir. Yes, you. The cyclops in the back there, foaming at the mouth. No, not you…” Be sure to include the appropriate hash-tag, and don’t forget to Have Your Say on all relevant forums after the show.
Just when it feels like we might not be getting the full gory picture, the ever-dependable staff of Heat magazine arrive to dish out the inside scoop. Davina’s also on standby, yelping into a radio mic like an over-zealous hyena. It’s a clusterfuck, alright – cascading panoramas of endlessly creative copulation all scored to a seemingly inescapable soundtrack of violent techno produced by David Guetta. Unst, unst, unst, unst. The rabid onlookers throw their hands in the air, happily sublimating the grinding minutiae of their own pitiful existence into a moment’s vicarious glee. Wobwobwobwobwobwobwobwobwobwobwobwob belches the inevitable obnoxious dubstep remix. The beat goes on.
Luncheon is served: a shit-sandwich washed down with a lukewarm glass of piss, all lovingly prepared by an unlikely alliance between Gordon Ramsay and the Two Fat Bastards. Meanwhile, out on the battlefield, it’s STI roulette. Who gets syphilis? Who gets AIDS? The Pope stumbles through the carnage handing out free condoms in an abortive attempt at subversion, all the while presiding over the ritual debasement of a dozen weeping altar-boys via the miracle of Google Pixel 7. As you were, Cardinal…!
We’re really on a roll now. There’s Katie Price, hungrily wolfing down a troika of tumescent cocks and demanding she be paid handsomely for the privilege, gumpfing back throatfuls of viscous, glowing jism which are swiftly regurgitated, bottled and marketed back to the masses as designer body lotion. On a self-anointed precipice somewhere above, Amanda Holden swans by dressed in swathes of unbecoming lingerie straight from the Ann Summers Winter Collection, stuffing a lubricated dildo in the shape of a Disney Princess up her slovenly, shaft-slackened arse while merrily sucking off Christ straight from the cross. The masses lap it up, clamouring for more. But is it art…?
With the timely advent of social networking, things start ramping up a notch. iPhones chatter in blithering displays of citizen journalism while Stephen Fry tweets the living shit out of it all. Before long, the press are weighing in. Jeremy Clarkson’s no doubt got something to say on the issue, but he’s couched it in such inflammatory rhetoric that even the frothing chops of the Mail On Sunday faithful are struggling to digest the fucker. Luckily, Melanie Phillips is on-hand to mop up the overspill, cheerlessly lamenting the degradation of good, old-fashioned Christian values in an increasingly secular society.
As predicted, the much-vaunted arrival of Josef Fritzl and Amanda Knox provides a truly show-stopping climax, whipping up a tempest of fervour from the thronging hordes as they joyfully have their way with the bloated corpse of Steve Jobs. After a few minutes of soulless, incendiary intercourse, the head comes off, but they carry on fucking all the same, absorbing shrill cries of encouragement from this week’s Nuts cover stunner, the sexiest virgin in all of Palestine. The editors are rueing their misfortune, of course: where the chuff is Mother Theresa when you need her most?
The inexorable zenith is prolonged, spasmodic and merciless. Voluminous fountains of pearly white lava begin to spew uncontrollably from a thousand rupturing urethras. The collective moan becomes nigh-on unbearable as the wailing reaches fever pitch, flashbulbs bursting like incandescent zits as they flicker and strobe to a state of epileptic apoplexy. Before long the entire scene is immortalised for posterity on the cover of countless glossy weeklies, before the reproductive rights are snapped up by an enterprising Simon Cowell - himself soon lost to history when he is swallowed wholesale by the roaring cunt of Britney Spears.
Luncheon is served: a shit-sandwich washed down with a lukewarm glass of piss, all lovingly prepared by an unlikely alliance between Gordon Ramsay and the Two Fat Bastards. Meanwhile, out on the battlefield, it’s STI roulette. Who gets syphilis? Who gets AIDS? The Pope stumbles through the carnage handing out free condoms in an abortive attempt at subversion, all the while presiding over the ritual debasement of a dozen weeping altar-boys via the miracle of Google Pixel 7. As you were, Cardinal…!
We’re really on a roll now. There’s Katie Price, hungrily wolfing down a troika of tumescent cocks and demanding she be paid handsomely for the privilege, gumpfing back throatfuls of viscous, glowing jism which are swiftly regurgitated, bottled and marketed back to the masses as designer body lotion. On a self-anointed precipice somewhere above, Amanda Holden swans by dressed in swathes of unbecoming lingerie straight from the Ann Summers Winter Collection, stuffing a lubricated dildo in the shape of a Disney Princess up her slovenly, shaft-slackened arse while merrily sucking off Christ straight from the cross. The masses lap it up, clamouring for more. But is it art…?
With the timely advent of social networking, things start ramping up a notch. iPhones chatter in blithering displays of citizen journalism while Stephen Fry tweets the living shit out of it all. Before long, the press are weighing in. Jeremy Clarkson’s no doubt got something to say on the issue, but he’s couched it in such inflammatory rhetoric that even the frothing chops of the Mail On Sunday faithful are struggling to digest the fucker. Luckily, Melanie Phillips is on-hand to mop up the overspill, cheerlessly lamenting the degradation of good, old-fashioned Christian values in an increasingly secular society.
As predicted, the much-vaunted arrival of Josef Fritzl and Amanda Knox provides a truly show-stopping climax, whipping up a tempest of fervour from the thronging hordes as they joyfully have their way with the bloated corpse of Steve Jobs. After a few minutes of soulless, incendiary intercourse, the head comes off, but they carry on fucking all the same, absorbing shrill cries of encouragement from this week’s Nuts cover stunner, the sexiest virgin in all of Palestine. The editors are rueing their misfortune, of course: where the chuff is Mother Theresa when you need her most?
The inexorable zenith is prolonged, spasmodic and merciless. Voluminous fountains of pearly white lava begin to spew uncontrollably from a thousand rupturing urethras. The collective moan becomes nigh-on unbearable as the wailing reaches fever pitch, flashbulbs bursting like incandescent zits as they flicker and strobe to a state of epileptic apoplexy. Before long the entire scene is immortalised for posterity on the cover of countless glossy weeklies, before the reproductive rights are snapped up by an enterprising Simon Cowell - himself soon lost to history when he is swallowed wholesale by the roaring cunt of Britney Spears.
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The porn star gave birth at the exact moment the Obersturmführer shot his bounteous load. They both screamed bloody murder, gave praise to the Fatherland for its innumerable blessings, and were promptly done with the whole tawdry affair.
C.C. 20/11/11
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