Goldilocks: The Tourettes Edition.

“Look. I didn’t touch your motherfukin’ porridge so blow it out your goddamn ass”

A shamelessly profane tale of porridge-guzzling folk by The Right Reverend Gary Fukin Hoadley (retd)

Once upon a time, a little slut named Goldibolox was walking through the forest. She came upon a small house and thought, “Hello, I think I will burgle that place”. The little bastard broke a window and crept in. After searching the house and finding nothing, she realised they were working class wankers that must be on the fukin dole.

Feeling a bit peckish, she went into the kitchen, there, on the table, were three pizzas. “What the fuck is that?“, thought Goldibolox; “Is this all these fukin arsoles eat“!

 

Picking up the first pizza, Goldibolox took a bite and spat it out all over the floor, “Fuck me“! she cried; “Jalapenos! That’s too fukin hot for me“! Next, she tried the cheese and tomato. “Tastes like shit”, she thought and spat it at the cat. The last pizza on the table was Hawaiian and this she liked, eating three fukin pieces, the greedy cunt.

 

After stuffing her fat fukin face, Goldibolox decided to have a kip in one of the bedrooms. She tried the big double bed, but it was too soft, then she tried the kids bed, but it stank of piss, so she settled for the futon in the spare room. Laying her scrawny fukin neck on the pillow, she fell fast asleep, the lazy bastard.

 

The three bears arrived home and went into the kitchen. On seeing the broken window, Daddy Bear said; “That fukin window cleaner will have to go”!

Mummy bear, looked down at the table, and saw that the pizzas had been tampered with. “If I catch that fukin cleaner helping herself to our food again I’m going to kick her fukin head in”.

 

Baby Bear, who was a sniveling little spoilt brat, started to cry; “Daddy, Daddy, some fucker has eaten three bits of my pizza”! Daddy bear, gave Baby bear a clump round the earhole and told him to fuck off to bed.

 

As Baby Bear walked past the spare room, he saw Goldibolox asleep on the futon, “Who the fuck are you”! he cried. Goldibolox woke with a start, and realising she was in the shit, leapt to her feet. She gave baby bear a dig, and raced past him. Running down the stairs she was confronted by Mummy Bear, “What the fuck are you doin’ in my house you little bastard”! she raged.

 

Goldibolox stuck the boot in, and laid out Mummy bear in the hallway. Breathing heavily, she realised smoking 70 cigarettes a day at 8 years old was not good. As Goldibolox made her way outside, Daddy Bear came after her with a  baseball bat, “Come back here you little cunt, I’m going to fuckin kill you” He shouted.

 

Goldibolox stuck two fingers in the air and said; “If you can catch me, you fat furry fuck!” With that, she skipped away, never to return  again, the dirty little slut.

Goodnight children. Sleep tight x

Letterz To LOMM

Dear League Of Mental Men.

As a habitually untidy and slovenly housewife whose home always looks as if a bomb’s hit it, I routinely arrange a series of ‘get well soon’ cards on my mantelpiece. Then when visitors call, I explain that I’ve been ill in bed and that’s why the place is in absolute shit state.

Mary Dell

Cleethorpes

Clivey

The School: An Everyday Story Of Soon-To-Be-Bullied Folk.

“Call me School Bully you snivelling little tic!”

***************************************

Written by Sir Garfield Hoadley Of Fulham

Wearily copied and pasted from his Outlook email account by Clivey Dee,19.

Scene One: A semi detached house in Hornchurch. Essex.
Father and son sit by the radiogram in the lounge

“Timothy, I have enrolled you at St Bumsteads School For Young Gentlefolk. Term begins in three weeks. Be so good as to make yourself ready

“But Pater, I won’t know any of the chaps there! Could I not stay here and be educated by you and Mater?

“Timothy, your Great Grandfather was a Bummer; my father was a Bummer, Uncle Herbert was a Bummer, I was a Bummer!  You too sir, will be a Bummer!”

“But Pater, can I not attend the local comprehensive school?  At least I know a few of the chaps there?”

“What? And end up like Cousin Marcus?!”

“But, he is a Member of Parliament Pater”

“Yes, for the Labour Party!”

“He owns a semi-detached house though Pater”

“Yes, in Dorking of all places my lad…Is that where you want to end up?”

“No Sir, I want to live in Cockfosters”

“There you are then, that is why you must go to St Bumsteads”.

“And become a Bummer Pater?”

“Yes Timothy, a Bummer you shall be sirrah!”.

“Do you think?…Is it possible that…?

“What my lad? What troubles you?”

“Will I be asked to be a toast rack Sir?”

“Of course! And later on, when the prefects get to know you, they will want you to become a privy bottom wiper”.

“Oh gosh, Pater, it all sounds so exciting”.

“It is Timothy, and what is more, you will have the half-term hols to look forward to”.

“Will I come home Pater, or will I go and stay with Mater and her nurse?”

“That depends. If Mater takes her medication, and there is no hullabaloo I don’t see why not. At the end of the day, I suppose there is no reason why we can not book a room in the asylum for you”.

“Splendid Pater!  Thank you for this chat”.

“My pleasure Timothy, now, can you wipe my arse before you make tea”.

The End

Danny Sparko: World Blogging Council Heavyweight Champion.

Dear Mr Sparko

I’m a 20 year old female who enjoys posting on the WordPress blogging website. My interests are pottery, embroidery and all sorts of arts and crafts. At first, everything was fine and I enjoyed sharing my ideas with like-minded people, who would often be kind enough to ‘like’ and comment on my blog. However, over the last few months I’ve been harassed by a man who keeps making inappropriate suggestions. I’ve told him that I’m engaged to my long-term boyfriend and not interested in his advances, but he won’t take no for an answer and continues with his unwanted attentions. Please help if you can Danny as it’s making me ill. I’ve become reclusive and my family and friends keep asking me if everything’s alright.

Jade Shay

London

********************************************

Dear Jade

I traced this sleazy arseole through the IP address you provided and went round his house last night. As soon as he opened the door I’ve straightened him with a right-hander. He went down like a sack of spuds so I’ve given him a few toe-enders around the kidneys to sharpen him up a bit. Then I’ve dragged him to his feet and stuck the nut on him, breaking his nose. At this point, his old woman came out, shouting the odds and telling me to leave it out, but I told her to shut it and that it was between me and him. To be honest, the geezer was in absolute shit state by now and looked as if he’d had enough, so I stamped on his face a few times with me steel-toe-capped Martens, giving his dial the old 5 millimetre tread. On the way back down his drive, I sliced through one of his car’s brake pipes in case he tried to drive himself to hospital. Anyway Jade, I don’t think you’ll be hearing from this mug anytime soon.

All the very best for the future

Danny.

Disclaimer: Danny Sparko is a fictitious character and, in no way, shape or form, reflects the opinion of the author on how these sparkling heroes should be dealt with, nor indeed, the type of swift and effective home-grown justice that would be meted out if the aforementioned were given half a chance. This disclaimer comes courtesy of the Yeah Right! Board Of Control

Clivey.

Clivey & Gaz Shamefacedly Present: “Telly”

Smudge by The Artful Dodger.

*************************************************

Scene One: The public bar in The Jolly Cripple, a rundown, backstreet public house in Wapping, East London. The lads are sipping pints of Banana Daquiri and seem in pensive mood.

 

“I was watching that David Attenborough last night Gaz”
“Woz you mate? Lovely job son”.
“Yeah, did you see it?”
“Nah, I didn’t as it goes Clivey”
“Why’s that then mate? Was the old woman watching The Quantum Physics Review again?”
“No mate. That’s Wednesday night. No, the bloke turned the telly over Clive”
“What bloke Gaz?”
“Geezer that owns the electrical shop in Mile End Road”.
“Mile End Road Gaz?”
“Yeah. He’s a right bastard he is and no error Clivey”.
“I don’t get it Gaz, what was you doing in the Mile End Road at eight o’clock of the night me old china plate?”
“I was waiting for that David Attenborough to start Clivey”.
“Your telly was in the Mile End Road Gaz?”
“Nah, I had a bull and cow with the old woman and she turfed me out. So I took me chair down to the electric shop. He’s got tellys in the window so I dived in for a butcher’s hook. They’re on all night see”
“Blimey Gaz. Why didn’t you shoot round to my drum? I’d have let you have a gander at the little telly in the downstairs ben ghazi
“Didn’t want to miss the beginning did I Clivey”.
“What happened at the shop then Gaz? Everything go alright did it son?”
“Well, I put me chair down, poured a scotch and coke, put me plates of meat up on the window sill, opened me box of bacon sandwiches, put the umbrella up, and then he goes and changes the poxy channel”
“Changes the channel Gaz!? What a diabolical liberty mate. You should have given him a few swipes across the jaw son”
“Tell me about it chief. I very nearly cleaned the fucker’s clock right then and there. The bastard  knew I’d come to watch the Attenborough bloke!”.
“So, what did you do then Gaz?”
“I said to him, I said; “Oi you pilchard, I was fucking watching that!”
“What did he say to that Gaz? I bet the geezer was bricking it after that piece of dialogue”
“Said he wasn’t running a cinema for vagrants Clivey”.
“Cheeky toe rag! I would have definitely straightened the mug for that”
“I couldn’t Clivey”
“Why’s that then Gaz?”
“Had nowhere to put me bacon sarny Clive”.
“Shame Gaz”
“Yeah,Shame Clivey”

This little vignette, and insight into life in the East End of London, was conceived by Sir Garfield Hoadley Of Spitalfields and co-written in conjunction with The Right Fucking Reverend Clivey Dee, the three times Arsebishop Of Camdenbury. No pets were harmed during the writing of this piece…apart from Gaz’s Staffordshire Bull Terrier who got booted up the arse for farting while we were watching Strictly Come Dancing.

Comrades: An Everyday Story Of Revolutionary Folk

Greetings from Petrograd comrades

Tremendous news fellow revolutionaries!  Heroic Comrade Wife has won a limited edition ‘Leon Trotsky Commemorative Bath-Plug’ for her winning entry in the district poetry competition with her piece entitled: “Death to the decadent Western oppressors and a curse on their imperialist Ford Mondeos”. And when we can afford a chain for the plug, it’ll mean that she won’t smell of piss anymore.

As a result, we took the much admired municipal tram into town to celebrate with a slap-up meal at fast-food turnip restaurant #37. Unfortunately the place is full of foreigners, everyone working on the serving counter seemed to be a bloody Armenian and hardly any of them are able to speak Russian. Instead of getting a ‘Big Joe Happy Turnip Burger’ we ended up with a ‘Fillet-O’-Sprout’. And it’s no good having a go at them as they just look at you blankly and say “You want a potato with that?”

I mean the fuckers are everywhere, not content with taking all the jobs at the sewage works, their women are undercutting our own heroic prostitutes!  They go straight to the top of the housing list, and only have to spend ten years living in a hole in the ground before they get allocated a family sized cardboard box. Still at least they’re not as bad as the Mongolians. I mean for fuck sake, you only have to stop at a working traffic light, and within 2 seconds some slanty-eyed bastard is trying to rub your donkey down with a dead mole on a stick.

I think it’s only District Commissioner, Nigeski Farrangski, who is listening to the proletariat. “Close the borders and send ’em back” he says. “Let’s get back to the days when you knew exactly which year it would be when you received a replacement light bulb”. A truly great man, and I for one, wholeheartedly welcome a return to blatant xenophobia and the repressive dictatorship when our own race reigned supreme.

FROM BETWEEN THE MUSCULAR THIGHS OF OUR HEROIC WOMEN SPRINGS FORTH A NEW GENERATION OF BRAVE LEADERS!

Heroically written by Gary Moorski “Churchmouse”

Decadently edited by Cliveski Dee, 19.

Filthy capitalist graphic by District Reactionary Hyena #37, The Artful Dodgerski

Letterz To LOMM

Dear League Of Mental Men

I notice that as a pre-cursor to submitting a piece of copy to the WordPress blogging site I am presented with an animated GIF which throws up a message along the lines of: “BLOOP BLIP GLOP GLOOP BLOOP BLIPPERTY”

Then, once the piece has been duly edited and published, yet another message appears which somewhat hysterically, and in my view rather unnecessarily, announces: “Congratulations! You have made a post on your WordPress blog!…Yay!”

In view of all this, I find myself wondering how old these fuckers are exactly. Are they like…10??

Yours etc.

Clivey Dee, 11.

London Man Vows To Enjoy Honeymoon On Paradise Isle Despite Bride’s Arrest At Airport

Mr Stevens (left) pictured putting a brave face on things yesterday

A 22-year-old newly-wed London man, has decided to continue with his honeymoon despite the fact that his new bride was detained at Heathrow airport by immigration officers who suspect she may have entered Britain illegally.

Chris Stevens, a plasterer from Lambeth in South London, posed happily for pictures on the beach and in various bars on the paradise island of St Lucia in the West Indies.

Speaking from outside the Coconut Beach night club, Mr Stevens said:

“I have to admit it put a bit of a dampener on things when my wife was led away by immigration, but it would have been silly to let it stand in the way of our planned trip together. With a bit of luck everything will be cleared up in a day or two and she’ll be able to join me. I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding anyway. She’s from Ukraine originally you see. I spotted her in an online magazine a couple of months ago and it was love at first sight”

Mr Stevens was later spotted leaving the club at 3.00am, accompanied by two attractive local women.

Clivey

Today’s Weather For Facebookers

“There’s an area of heavy irony moving in from East London babes. Wuff oo! XOXOXOXOXO”

There will be widespread LOLs across the entire region this morning followed by intermittent ((((((HUGS))))) and a few scattered cat pictures.

In the afternoon. a deep depression will settle over most parts with a number of boxes containing plagiarised words of wisdom and earnest political dogma, these may bring occasional blurred pictures of hideous looking offspring, becoming widespread in some areas.

Towards evening, there could be varying amounts of private messages, some of which could be quite heavy, with prolonged attachments containing small amounts of male genitalia, bringing long spells of dryness in the female gusset region. Testosterone levels will be particularly low in this area.

Overnight, there will be periods of light to heavy vomiting with occasional bursts of incontinence, as an area of lager, combined with fizzy white wine, settles over the entire region. These could be interspersed with the odd outbreak of cyber bullying, coupled with intermittent, laughable threats of violence from blokes with biceps like squashed Jaffa Cakes. These may be accompanied by occasional bursts of light female crying in low IQ areas.

Tomorrow will see another deep depression moving into the region with occasional bed sheet changing which in turn will give way to some thundery outbreaks and high winds in the south, resulting in brief periods of furtive underwear hiding.

The outlook for the week ahead is for more of the same but with occasional bursts of yawn-inducing birthday messages combined with the odd crass spelling error and attention-seeking suicide threat.

And now here’s the outlook for the week ahead in WordPress:

It’s a particularly gloomy picture here, with widespread sycophantic fawning and with a number of disingenuous “likes” and “follows” moving in for the afternoon. These will be accompanied by a  deep area of low intelligence and zero shame. Right from the word go there will be long outbreaks of truly appalling copy and absolutely risible poetry, bringing heavy gales of laughter, coupled with sporadic periods of wry amusement and light chuckling, particularly in the London area.

Clivey

The London Area