Tag Archives: perverse

Cool Runnings

7 Sep

It was 1994 and the Winter Olympics were in full swing in Lillehammer, Norway. Being only 10, I didn’t really have much interest in it and neither did the rest of my class; we were more concerned about playing Cops and Robbers, putting upturned drawing pins onto each other’s chairs and singing the wrong words to hymns in assembly. Playtimes were spent swapping Panini Football Stickers (with a shiny was worth AT LEAST 2 normal stickers), trying to push one another into the thorn bush and or sticking ‘itching powder berries’ down the back of someone’s shirt. Life was good; I had no worries in the world and not a great deal of homework to contend with at that age – as long as I went home with a new sticker for my Panini album, I was happy.

My teacher at the time was Mr.Marsh; feared by many, he was the only male teacher at my primary school. His booming voice would stop a misbehaving child in his or her track. Some were known to have spontaneously wet themselves after being shouted at. Now, Mr. Marsh was not an ordinary teacher. He would try and make learning fun; we listened to every word as he spoke, such was the enthusiasm of the man. We’d already completed a class project earlier in the year where we had various ‘airports’ dotted around the classroom, complete with toy planes. Daily timetables were drawn up and it was up to the ‘Air traffic Controller’ and ‘Pilot’ (specified daily) to move the correct planes, at the correct time, to the correct airport. It was not unusual to see children wandering about in the middle of a maths lesson, to move a toy plane to its next destination. This taught us geography and time management skills apparently. I didn’t care – it was fun.

Mr. Marsh also loved sport. Not only did he teach us in year 5, but he doubled as the PE teacher for the whole of the school. He was sport mad, so to him, the Winter Olympics were a big deal. I remember the beaming smile on his face as he broke the news to us about our next class project one morning.

“Class”, he started, his deep voice bouncing off the walls of the classroom, “for our next class project, we will be holding a bobsleigh tournament. You will work on your own and will compete against each other”

Our ears pricked up. Even the cool kids at the back of the class stopped whispering and passing notes.

“We will build a bobsleigh track in the classroom. Not a full size one for you to race down, but one that will fit a matchbox car. The only rule is, your matchbox car will have to look like a bobsleigh. You will have to use card and any other materials you want, to make the correct shape, decorate it in the colours of any nation you choose, and attach it to your car. We will then hold time trials to see who is the bobsleigh champion. We will build the course this week and time trials will be Monday and Tuesday of next week”. It was Mr. Marsh’s own little way of getting a class of 10 year olds interested in the Winter Olympics.

We couldn’t believe our luck – we were going to be coming to school to race our cars! Even the girls in the class didn’t seem fussed by this. I was over the moon; a keen collector of matchbox cars, I was sure I had the perfect car to beat all the opposition.
The course was built over the next few days. Mr. Marsh provided a plastic track from some sort of toy car race track (Hotwheels or something similar). This was attached to wall at the side of the classroom, running down at quite a steep angle so that the cars could pick up speed. It was about 7-8 metres long, then doubled back on itself sharply, and ran along some desks that were pushed together alongside the wall. The first part of our project was to decorate the wall with a winter Olympic theme, complete with spectators. I think Neil drew a yeti somewhere in the background. This was the boring part on the project. On the Friday, we all had to bring in the car that we wanted to use in the bobsleigh tournament. Mr.Marsh supplied those who hadn’t got one (mainly the girls) with a car from his collection. I carefully cut out two shapes that vaguely represented the side profile of bobsleigh, and blu-tacked them to the side of my car, which was a black Porche if I recall correctly. I had chosen this because the wheels seemed to go the best out of all of my collection. I gave my bobsleigh the number 12, and coloured it in black, green and yellow; the colours of Jamaica. We were even allowed to oil up the wheels of our cars – It was one of the best days of school ever. I actually wanted the weekend to go quickly, as Monday was the day for testing our cars on the track and making any modifications if required, ready for the time trials on Tuesday. Most of the class couldn’t wait either and a friendly rivalry had already sprung up amongst classmates.

Monday came, and one by one, we were allowed to take our car to the top of the track and release it, seeing how well it performed. Giving the car a push was not permitted. I waited with great anticipation for my turn; my surname begins with ‘W’ so I was one of the last as we were going in alphabetical order. I was sure that the other kids would be so jealous when they saw how fast my car went. Finally my time came and I stepped up, make-shift bobsleigh in hand. I let go and it whizzed down the track at some speed, much faster than most. When it came to the curved bend, the bobsleigh almost shot over the top. ‘Ah, skills’ I thought to myself, ‘I can win this’. My main competitor, from what I could tell, would be a girl named Sarah Bow, who’s bobsleigh had also nearly left the track, such was the speed of it. I hadn’t noticed anyone other bobsleigh do this. I went home Monday a happy child, brimming with confidence about the following days competition.

Tuesday came and it was the final day of our Winter Olympic project, the day that we’d all been waiting for – the race competition. Excited voices filled the classroom that morning, every child was confident that their bobsleigh would win. I kept quiet; I knew that it was a two horse race between myself and Sarah Bow. After class registration, we had an opening ceremony. Every competitor had to go to the front of the classroom, say an interesting fact about the country they were representing and place their bobsleigh on the desk before returning to their seats. Mr. Marsh waited until the 25 or so small bobsleighs were lined up, and declared that we would be starting the day with a history lesson; competition would commence after break. What a tease.

We came into class after break time and the competition started. All did not go according to plan. The first couple of bobsleighs seemed to ‘stick’ to the track and wouldn’t go down it. Closer examination revealed that there was a cheat amidst us; the wheels of the toy cars had been stuffed with blu-tac. Picking up my car I noticed the same thing had been done to mine and the wheels were slightly bent. I was quite distraught – my hopes of winning the competition had been dashed. Mr. Marsh hit the fucking roof!
“Who has decided to cheat and ruin this for everyone?”. The walls shook such was the ferocity in his voice. No-one owned up, no-one daren’t look up; every child in the class had their eyes fixated on their desk. Mr. Marsh was clearly disappointed that someone would do such a thing. He explained that he would ‘come down like a ton of bricks’ on the person responsible for cheating, should he find out who had done it. Fortunately, such was his love for this project, he let us have until lunch time to fix our bobsleighs and competition would restart in the afternoon.

Rumours circulated during lunch break about who the phantom tamperer could be. One name kept springing up; Sarah Bow. Rat-Catcher Simon told me that he had seen her go back into the class during break time and a couple of other kids confirmed this. For me, that was enough evidence. She was a competitive little cow – it was widely known that her mum had completed her Mozart project earlier in the year and she had taken all the plaudits, as well as the book token first prize. I was fuming. My bobsleigh had no chance of winning, the bent wheels meant that it was now one of the slowest. If I couldn’t win, I was going to make sure that Sarah Bow couldn’t either.

I scoffed my lunch down faster than usual and left the canteen. I made my way towards our classroom, pausing only briefly for a quick sip from the water fountain – my throat was dry; I was going to do something devious, but I didn’t know what. The classroom door was open slightly, and peeking through I saw that the room was empty. Outside, I could see other members of my class playing ‘Tag around the bush’ and Mr. Marsh watching over the playground, wearing really tiny PE shorts. I entered the room and pushed the door shut behind me. On the desk in front of me were all the bobsleighs. My eyes scanned the desk quickly, looking for Sarah Bow’s, all the while I was listening intently for any sounds of someone coming. If I got caught it would ruin me, my reputation would be in tatters as I would surely have been prime suspect as the phantom tamperer.

I saw Sarah Bow’s bobsleigh, (a red and white one, I think it was Canada) and I grabbed it in my hand. I examined it –not a trace of any damage to the wheels; she must have tampered with everyone else’s, I was sure of it. What I did next still confuses me to this day. Not really knowing what to do with the bobsleigh, I dropped my trousers and inserted it into my anus. Now, this was the first time I’d ever put anything up there (not that I’ve put anything else up there since), and I was surprised by how quickly it slipped up once I’d got the nose of the car in. ‘Wow, it’s like it’s actually driving up me’ I remember thinking. At the time I was worried that our pockets or bags would be searched once Sarah discovered her bobsleigh was missing, so my arsehole was the only place where I could safely hide it. Once composed, I went into the playground and joined my friends, my bum pulsating slightly.

An upbeat vibe filled the classroom upon our return after lunch. Even Mr. Marsh seemed to have calmed down and was eager to start the competition. I stayed calm, I was perspiring slightly but I kept my cheeks clenched tightly, my stolen prize stayed put. I knew that Sarah Bow would go mental when she discovered her bobsleigh was missing.

To cut a long story short, she broke down in tears when it came to her go and she couldn’t compete. I think Mr. Marsh may have had his suspicions about her already, he just shrugged and said, “You must have misplaced it”. My heart swelled with pride and my buttocks ached with pain – I had stopped Sarah Bow winning and it was just what she deserved. I think Andrew ‘Carrot Nose’ Littlejohn won the competition in the end. I came in the bottom 3, but I wasn’t fussed. The highlight of the whole project for me was seeing Sarah Bow’s devious little plan all come unhinged. I waddled home that afternoon content with the world and had the most refreshing poo of my life to date. The Canadian bobsleigh slid slowly out of me and I picked it from the toilet bowl with some tissue paper and buried it in the garden.

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AB#6 – Midget Party

7 Aug

Every year I host a garden party for all those people in my local area that have been cursed with the plague-like affiliation of dwarfism. Last night saw this event take place and a plethora of small people turned up. Dwarfs and midgets chatted as one, and I even threw in a few party games as well.

I took it upon myself to start hosting this event for a number of reasons. Firstly, I wanted to raise my profile in the local community as I aim to become town mayor by the time I am 40. Secondly, I am sick and tired of ‘little people’ being treated different from other members of our society, I thought I should make a stand and help make others realise that we are all the same. The final reason is the warmth I get inside as I watch a smile form across their faces when they see what I have done for them. Smiles so big that they almost take your eye away from their whacking sized foreheads. I love the way their little limbs flap as they clamber up my stairs and roll about in the sand pit. Oh how I laugh when I see them running for the punch, like a toddler, only funnier.
Last night was no different.

Invites had been sent out last week to about 30 midget people that I have got to know over the last few years. Guests started arriving at 7 o’clock and I directed them into my front room where they could enjoy the delights of ‘Guess which name I’m pointing to in the Yellow Pages’ whilst they waited for the arrival of the others. I’d provided a small finger buffet of cocktail sausages, pineapple and cheese on sticks, beetroot sandwiches and radish slices.

Around half an hour later, all my guests had arrived and it was time to show them to the garden. As I pulled back the curtain from the patio door, there were gasps of delight and their little faces lit up like tiny children at the fairground. I had erected a gazebo to keep everyone dry from the rain (after all, we didn’t want to see anymore shrinkage) and halogen lights lit the place up like Blackpool, only cleaner. I had even layed out an old carpet, and provided seating, and a small BBQ was ready to go.

The first party game was to be the piñata. Up stepped Mike, a dwarf that works in the local butchers. He makes small trinkets from the bones and carcasses of the dead animals there, and sells them on a stall outside. He grasped the baseball bat in his tiny chubby hands, his watch almost disappearing from sight amongst the rolls of fat as he bent his grip backwards. I blindfolded him and stepped back for safety. The piñata swayed in the gentle breeze, the pink and orange tissue paper that I had used to decorate it reflected the light hypnotically. Mike stepped forward a pace, and to a chorus of clapping and cheering, swung at the piñata with all his might.

He missed by a mile.

The clapping got faster, the midgets cheered louder and Mike swung again, this time leaping a little off the floor to try and get more power into his hit. He was still a long way off though, I estimated about 4 foot lower than the bottom of the piñata. I called to Mike to let the others have a go and so he removed his blindfold and put it around the face of Jenny, an even funnier looking thing. Her body was way out of proportion. Her arse is like that of rhino, whilst her body like that of an aphid. Her head is indescribable.

Mike gave her a quick pat on the back for good luck and made his way to the others. Again the clapping started, and encouraging cheers were this time as loud as ever. Jenny aimed the bat upwards and swung, the sheer momentum of it causing her to fall over. There she lay, flustered, like a woodlouse on its back. A small kick to her side was all that was needed to get her up.

Over the next half an hour, many more midgets had a go, but none of them could reach the piñata. This was a great shame, as inside lay man y a treat including a baby bullfrog, a spinning top and a small Buddha statue, signed by Konni Huq o Blue Peter fame.

The next game was apple bobbing but with a twist. For this game, I had hired out a pool, one of the self-assembled variety that are seen in many gardens these days, and at 4ft deep, was adequate what I wanted.
I asked each midget that wanted to play this game to stand around the outside of the pool, in their underwear. They stood and watched as I tossed about 30 apples into the pool and made them all tie a balloon to their pants. This was to make the bobbing much more difficult, they would have to power their little legs harder in order to reach the bottom of the pool.

“On your marks. Get Set. Go!”, I shouted and 12 midgets leapt into the pool. This was a sight that will never leave me. Little people all trying their utmost to get to the bottom of the pool, but bobbing about like buoys with small limbs. The winner of this game was to be the person that could retrieve most apple, with their mouth, from the bottom of the pool, in two minutes. Those that were not playing shouted words of encouragement, I just laughed at them. Their legs flaying out of the top of the water, kicking around uncontrollably as they tried to get to the bottom of the pool, was sheer comedy. Even those not participating found it hard to control their laughter.
I looked at my watch at shouted for them to stop. They got out of the pool and stood next to the apples they had managed to bob. Not one of them had managed even one, until that is, I reached Brian..
Brian stood triumphantly next to a pile of 7 apples. I was amazed at this amount. None of the others had managed a single apple, yet Brian, a man smaller than many at the party, had somehow amassed 7.

I congratulated Brian and gave him his prize, a homemade lemon gateaux with added fish essence. I told him to turn around so I could untie the balloon from his pants and it was at this point I was taken aback. I noticed a large,pointy lump coming from the bottom of his pants and asked Brian what the Hell it was.
“Oh, that? That’s my tail”, said Brian proudly. With this, he lowered his underwear slightly to reveal a small wagging tail, only skin covered, not hairy.
“How….how did you get that?” I asked. He went on to explain that his spine hadn’t stopped growing, even though the rest of his body had, and so he had a little tail. He could wag it like a dog, and had used the power from this to propel himself to the bottom of the pool.

“This is an unfair, amphibian like advantage”, I cried, throwing the gateaux over the fence. I had decided to disqualify Brian and so there was no winner. After a bit of protest, he agreed that he was in the wrong, so we moved onto the game – the high jump.

This was a game that everyone was to compete in. At one end of the gazebo, I had two piles of breeze blocks, four high, with a broom stick in between them. The midgets formed an orderly queue at the other end . One my command they all took it in turns to run at the broomstick, and attempt to clear it. Those that could would go through o the next round, where the bar would be raised, until we had a winner.

The next 20 minutes proved to me that my party games were a waste of time. Not one midget managed to clear the bar, and we lost Darren, the young AIDS victim, through a broken nose. He had tripped and smashed his face into the breeze blocks, losing 4 teeth in the process. Instead of playing the other games I had lined up; basketball and wrestling, I decided to call a halt to proceedings.

“Every year I host a party for you guys, this year, you’re just taking the piss”, I shouted. “If your not willing to put the effort in to these games I’ve arranged for you, then I’m not willing to have you all in my house. Go on, get out. Be gone you pathetic excuse for humans.”

They looked at me stunned, slack-jawed. I snared and they began to file out of the garden, through the house and out the front door. “And don’t come back”, I screamed, waving my fist in the air, as the last one closed the door behind him. I had wasted my time , money and effort in organising the party. I felt saddened at the fact that these midgets had tried to make a laughing stock out of me, even though I was willing helping people understand them. What had I done to deserve this?

I walked back out into the garden and extinguished the flame on the BBQ. Walking back inside, I glanced over my shoulder to survey to mess they had left behind them. “The bastard rapscallions”, I said to myself and went to the kitchen.

Never again. Never, ever again.

AB#5 – The Return of Axle Strider

7 Aug

My local pub, the Bell End View Local Tavern is where I go every Sunday night for a couple of pints of Abbot Ale, and to join in the quiz with all the other locals. Yesterday saw a £50 prize going to the winner, so I headed straight down after my dinner to get a decent seat. The pub itself has a very cosy atmosphere; the faded red upholstery that adorns most of the seats now has a more of a pink tinge to it, and the old oak posts and floorboards are battered and worn. Old brass utensils are hung sporadically on the walls and the low sloping ceiling makes the whole place seem smaller than it really is. A log fire burns most nights keeping the pub warm and inviting.

It’s shielded from the rest of the pub by a very large grill. It didn’t used to be, but after an elderly chap had a rather bad accident after too much rum in close proximity to the fire, Health and Safety called for it to be installed. His nickname is now ‘Weston’. The pub has no pool table, which I like, as it keeps unwanted youths away, and the bitter is always of good quality. The main reason I come here though is the people. From landlady Scatty Morag to many of the other locals – Big Paul, Carpenter Dave (he’s a plumber), Chin O’Brien and Mustang Wally; they are all a lovely bunch of people that give me a lot of time and good conversation.

I arrived at about ten past seven to yesterdays quiz, and the pub was already to beginning to fill up with hopeful people all wanting to take part and win. I always enter the quiz on my own, rather than being in a team, as I like to take all the glory for myself. Plus, what’s the point of splitting £50 five ways? I’ve never seen the use of winning a tenner. My usual stool at the end of the bar was unoccupied so I ordered a pint of Abbot and a packet of pork scratchings and sat down.

“What time do we get underway, Morag”, I asked as she handed me my change.

”Well Arthur it’s an 8 o’clock kick off, would you like a cheese sandwich?” she replied, smiling.

“No thanks, I’ve just eaten” was my response and I was a bit surprised at how quickly she’d managed to change the subject, which Morag was famed for.

I passed her my £1 entry fee and looked around scanning any potential competition. Most of the usual faces were already gathered in their groups; my main rivals were sat directly opposite me near the door. ‘God Shave the Queen’ is their ‘hilarious’ team name, but they have won six of the last eight quiz nights. Mustang Wally is the brains behind the team, specializing in both science and geography, but his wife Brenda is also capable when it comes to history questions. I think that they carry the other two members of the team somewhat, their next door neighbours Colin and Bruce, a couple of homosexuals that have matching moustaches and who like to fornicate in public.

Also present were ‘The Old Couple’, ‘Pump your Quiz on me’, ‘Farmers Meekly’ and ‘Beadle’s Claw’, among others. I opted to go for my usual name of ‘Solo Baggall’. Although it sounds like some sort of lurid sex act, I like this name and I will always keep it. I can’t stand teams that change their team name every week; in fact, I think there should be a 10 point deduction for any team that wants to change their name. Farcical. As 8 o’clock neared, the pub was bustling with people getting drinks in ready prior to the quiz starting. I got another pint in as the first one had gone down so well.

Question Master for the evening was to be Morag’s husband, Phil, who always did a good job. Morag passed Phil a microphone from behind the bar and it made a piercing shrill as he flicked it on. “Good evening Ladies and Gents and welcome to the weekly Bell End View quiz night! As some of you know, first prize tonight is £50, so good luck all. Morag is handing out paper and pens to all the teams as we speak and once she’s done that, I’ll start the quiz!” I took my pen in my hand and then hunched over my paper slightly in the fashion of a child at school, so no-one could copy any of my answers. I was quietly confident that this was going to be my week.

“Round 1 will be on Capital Cities”, said Phil. My eyes lit up. I couldn’t believe it, my best topic. I was determined to get into an early lead and show my rivals I meant business. Phil picked up his clipboard of questions and spoke into the microphone.

 “Ok, question 1. What is the capita ARRHHGGGHHH, what the f….”

He was stopped mid sentence by an almighty smash. There were cries of terror coming from two women sat on a table behind me, near the back entrance which leads to the garden. Looking over my shoulder I saw broken glass littering the tables, chairs and floor that stood in front of what used to be a window. The occupants of the table were not badly hurt; one lady had a deep gouge on her cheek but was otherwise fine. She looked to be making the most of it, milking the fact she was bleeding as a way of getting a bit of attention. The woman and her friends made their way over to the bar and everyone was now beginning to crowd around the area where I was sat to see what had happened. The whole pub had fallen into an eerie silence. The congregation around me reeked of anticipation; they were expecting something else to happen.

“Please remain calm and return to your seating”, announced Phil with slight discomfort in his voice.

No-one listened; they remained focused on the smashed window. Morag had shimmied over to the area to retrieve a brick from the floor. This was obviously the projectile that had been used to cause this damage but who had thrown it? Although it only happened yesterday, I cannot really remember what was going through my head at this point. I think I was more transfixed on watching the actions of others. I remember having a gut feeling that something else was going to happen, and I was right. From out of the dark night sky, a figure moved towards the shattered window. I could only make out the silhouetted outline at first but as they moved nearer, It slowly dawned on me as to who it was. The person in question is a beast of a man, the local nutcase who had previously done time for GBH, armed robbery and necrophilia; a man that I had the misfortune of spending my school years with. Most of the crimes he commits are carried out whilst he’s high on drugs, I’ve spotted him on my binoculars before, sniffing glue and popping pills in the early hours of the morning.

The man who had smashed the window was Axle Strider.

He was back from wherever he’d been, and he didn’t look too happy. His face was contorted with rage; his bulbous eyes with dilated pupils looked full of confusion and anger. Sweat trickled down his bald, veiny head, and it glistened like a disco ball from the light emitted from the pubs fire. His stonewash jeans were tattered and dirty, and they were held onto his lower torso with what looked to be a bungee cord. His white vest was thick with grease and mud and clung to his toned chest like a limpet. Over this he wore a denim jacket, with the sleeves rolled up. It didn’t quite match the shade of his jeans, it appeared to be newer. In one hand he clasped a butchers’ knife. The other was in the air with the middle finger raised.

“What the fook are you lot lookin’ at, eh?” he screamed, as he waved the knife menacingly.

Many people in the pub had moved back now towards the entrance and those that had been around me trying to see what was going on were following suit. I remained in my seat trying to stay calm. In truth I was petrified. Axle used to bully me at school and it was no surprise to me he had turned out like he had. I wanted to keep my head down, try and look away, but something was stopping me. I just had to watch the mentalist.

“Axle, my love, what the bleedin’ Hell are you doing? What do you want? Can I get you a Stella? Why did you smash my window?” Morag was hysterical. She was shaking like a cold Parkinson’s sufferer.

Phil had moved behind the bar and put a reassuring arm around her. She nuzzled into his neck and began to sob.

“Pleeease, please go Axle. Why are you doing this to my pub?” Her words sounded weak and feeble. The corner of Axle’s mouth moved up slightly and he broke into a smile. As he smiled, his chapped top lip bled slightly as the skin broke out from the tight position it had previously been in. He was now starting to climb through the window and no one was doing anything to stop him. I remember Mustang Wally attempting to remonstrate with him and I admire him for that. He walked towards Axle, picking up an empty pint glass on the way. Axle leapt through the window, knocking the remaining shards of glass out from the window frame with his feet as he did so. Wally was in trouble and we all knew it.

“Leave him Wally”, said Phil, almost inaudibly. Wally looked at Phil and then backed away slowly from the window. Axle started to laugh.

“HAHAHA, you utter wimp, you complete and utter wimp” and as he said this he moved towards the bar where we were all gathered. My heart sank as his gaze fixed onto me, once again I was trying to look away but I just couldn’t. I knew he recognised me from somewhere, I was just hoping he wouldn’t figure it out. Many people were pleading with him to leave.

All he would say though was “I am Axle Strider and I will do what I please”. “YOU!” he shouted, prodding me in the chest with his finger. “Who are you? I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”

He was right in my face now, spitting the words out through his clenched teeth. I was so close to him, I could see the patterns of stubble against his rough skin. I could smell alcohol on his breath and I could taste his salty body odour which was raping the air. I was scared and he knew it.

“No, not me, Sir” I said, in the gentlest manner I could. “I think you have me confused with someone else”. It sounded convincing enough in my head.

Axle took a step back and surveyed me up and down.

“No, I do know you. You’re Baggall aren’t you? I knew it! I knew I recognised you’re ugly mug”. He slammed a fist onto the bar in front of me. Morag let out a quiet whimper as if she knew what was about to happen. I looked around me for support but everyone had gone to the front of the pub, packing themselves against the wall. I was on my own. Axle lurched forward again and grabbed me by the collar of my jumper. The force of this sent my flat cap to the floor. He looked like a rabid dog; foaming at the mouth and now shouting an impressive array of obscenities. I was so scared, I couldn’t move. People were shouting, I could see their mouths moving, but I could hear nothing. It was like I was underwater.

I looked into Axle’s eyes and he just looked back blankly; it seemed as if he was looking straight through me. He moved his right arm backwards, his tightly clenched fist pointed down towards me, with numerous sovereign rings ready to pummel my face in. Everything was moving in slow motion. As his fist came through the air towards me, I did the only thing I could. I moved my head to one side and pushed my arm upwards towards his face. As I made contact with his sweaty face, I pushed my index finger deep into his eye, gouging it; twisting my wrist so that I could inflict as much pain as I physically could. Axle let out a terrifying scream in agony and staggered back, releasing his grip on me. He fell to his knees and covered his face with both of his hands. Blood was oozing from his eye socket and spilling down his face. I was in shock. I looked at my hand. I had Axle’s blood spattered over it. I remember the noise coming back into the room at this point. I heard a cry of “What has he done, Arthur’s a dead man now” and it sprung me back into action.

“Take that you bastard!” I leapt forward and kicked upwards against Axle’s chin, sending him backwards onto the floor. He was sprayed out like an upturned woodlouse, disorientated and desperately trying to feel for something to help him to his feet. A nasty looking cut had formed from the kick, a gash so deep you could just see the bone. I knelt onto Axle’s chest and tried to pull his tongue out. It gripped the fleshy end between my thumb and forefinger and tugged downwards. As I did so, Axle’s head jolted forward and met the palm of my other hand, sending him back to the floor.

Blood was pissing out of his face now, he was almost recognisable. I had never got into a rage like this before, the last time I came close was when I was back at school and the bullies used to lock me in the stock cupboard with the school cleaner, who was later convicted as a paedophile. I used to get taunted saying that I had turned him. I suppose it was these memories that came flooding back as I pummelled Axle. Every last sap of energy drained out of me as I laid a relentless barrage of punches, kicks and slaps. After 5 minutes or so, I stood up, sweaty and dazed. Axle lay on the floor like a dead badger on the side of the road. I don’t know why but other people in the pub began to clap. There was cheering as well, “Way to go Arthur, Yeah!” a jubilant Morag exclaimed, “Let’s drag the evil swine outside”.

So we did. It took 4 of us to move his battered body across the floor and into the pub garden. We rolled him into the bushes and retired back to the pub for a celebratory drink. I couldn’t believe what I had done. I was a quivering wreck by this point. I wasn’t sure if it was the excitement of being a hero or the fear of Axle’s revenge. Either way, I was going to try and savour the moment. The night passed quickly without any further incident of note. I was proud to have conquered a few of my childhood demons, with Axle taking to full brunt of this.

I was rewarded with a three-some with Phil and Morag. After closing time, we headed upstairs and into their bedroom, onto the marital bed. Things were by no means awkward and we got straight on with things. I took Morag from behind, quite slowly, whilst she performed fellatio on Phil. It got quite messy. Morag was begging me to come deep inside her at one point, but I wasn’t ready. I squeezed my throbbing shaft at the base and withdrew. The sight of me, member bobbing around proudly, caused Phil to withdraw and spatter Morag’s face with his man fat. She looked like a plasterer’s radio, but she managed to force a smile and lick her lips a little. I was bashing myself off like a little spider monkey at this point, whilst furiously fingering Morag’s baggy snatch. Yes, she was old, but her pert breasts more than made up for the lack of friction I was receiving from her vaginal passage. She had a nice little rug on her as well, like a 70s German porn star.

Phil was watching, semi-awake and semi-erect. I took his place on the bed and lay down. Morag shimmied herself over me and then squatted, releasing a torrent of fluid over my chest, which I massaged into myself. She then lowered herself onto my wand and began to slowly gyrate, leaning forward so I could take a nipple between my teeth. I held onto her arse for support and went at jack hammer speed. Morag wailed loudly and arched her back, her ribcage protruded through her skin. I was ready to unleash my load into her cunny and Morag shouted, “I’m coming Mr.Baggall you fucker” as she climaxed. I won’t go into the finer details of last night, but I sure did enjoy myself. As for Axle Strider; I hope he never has the nerve to show his face around here again.

AB#4– The Man with the Dodecahedron Shaped Head

7 Aug
It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to write as I’ve been busy helping the police with some of their more important enquiries. Believe you me; you’ll be shocked when you hear what I have to say about my ‘friend’ Barry, known around the town as ‘The Man with the dodecahedron shaped head’.
He’s also now known as a dirty zoophile.
Barry has always been a bit of a quirky fellow. Firstly let me tell you about his head, it really is a grotesque affair; weirdly shaped with bumps and lumps coming out from every angle. It’s veiny, pale and has a texture similar to that of ET; half leather, half eczema. When Barry walks, his huge head flops about carefree, like his neck has given up trying to support it. When he speaks it’s painful to listen to. A long monotonous drone followed by a thirty second stutter and spittle. And that’s just him saying his name. Not only this, he has a habit of hording anything and everything. He’ll collect rubbish from around the town and hoard it under his bed, he’ll defecate into old lunchboxes and put them in his freezer and he’s started to collect dead animals; cats, squirrels, mice, pretty much anything he sees that hasn’t got a pulse.
 
 
Having said this, I’ve always liked Barry. We met at the village fete last year where I was running a ‘Splat the Rat’ stall. Barry was my last customer that day and my only winner. He refused to use the rounders bat I offered him, instead opting to smash the ‘rat’ with his bulbous forehead. I gave him his prize, a signed photo of Dave Benson-Phillips and we hit it off from there. Since then, we have met up at least once a week, normally round my house as I find the putrid smell that lurks around his pretty unbearable.
 
 
As much as I like Barry and get on with him, it is often difficult. The public aren’t too kind when they see Barry, and treat him like a modern day John Merrick. Abuse is hurled at him wherever he walks, and being a friend of his, I often get caught in the crossfire. I’ve often seen Barry chase after local youths that have called him a freak, armed with only a leather belt and the angriest grimace on his face you can imagine. His head, although slowing him down, can make a handy weapon. Friday nights are the worse, and I’ve taken to staying in on my own. “Oi! Dodecahedron head you ugly twat”, are the most frequent cries from drunken revelers. They like to poke him and laugh at his voice. I remember one man describing Barry’s groans like that of ‘Brian Blessed’s voice, only with a megaphone, whilst battering a baby seal with all his might’.
Anyway, the events of the last few days have put a lot of things into perspective for me. The most important things I’ve learnt from what has happened is never make friends with a weirdo, never talk to a freak and never ever trust a man with a dodecahedron shaped head. The reason?  Almost all of them are dirty zoophiles. I’ve learnt from my lesson and I hope by writing down the events of the last couple of days, whoever reads this will too.
 
 
Last Thursday there was a knock at my door. I remember being a bit angered as I was playing Subbuteo against myself and actually winning for a change. I opened the door and smiling at me was Barry’s wide frog-like mouth.
 
 
“Arthur”, he said, foaming at the corner of his mouth slightly, “Fancy coming round to mine for a bite to eat?”
 
 
“I’ll pass on the food, but yeah, I can come round for a bit. Let me get my slippers on Barry and I’ll be right with you”, I replied.
 
 
Barry’s eyes lit up, I was the only person in the village that gave him any sort of time at all, he knew if I had have turned him down, he would have been forcing his faeces into Tupperware all afternoon, alone and upset. We set off from mine at about 12.30 and Barry’s house is normally a 5 minute stroll from mine, sometimes slightly longer if his head is more swollen than usual. However, Barry wasn’t intent on going straight to his house, he wanted to go via the park as “The fresh air helps my facial skin”, I remember him saying.
Now, you might not think this is strange, especially as it’s coming from the mouth of the dodecahedron shaped headed man. But, if I was to say that I had seen Barry sniffing the grass in the park where a couple of pigeons had copulated just a couple of days before, you’d have a slight air of suspicion about you. I did too. I knew this type of behavior wasn’t normal, and seeing someone with Barry’s looks displaying such behavior, only amplifies the strangeness of the situation.
 
 
We entered the park. There is a gravelly path which cuts through the middle of it, grass on either side of it, with a medium sized playground on one side next to a pond.”Can we, can we?!” Barry said in the manner of a drunken toddler. He was jumping up and down on the spot, head flailing about wildly and arm pointing at the park. I agreed we could stay for a while but being a grown up, and very mature man, I didn’t want to hang around for too long. I don’t want to dwell on the finer details, but there were about 3 ducks and 2 swans on the pond and two dogs with their owners near the slide.
Barry made his way over to the swings and brushed the tops of each seat gently with his hand as he walked passed. I sat on the first one I came too, but Barry looked about carefully before settling onto his swing, as if he was looking for a good position. A good position for what, I didn’t know at this point, I could tell though he wanted to be able to see the dogs playing, and birds swimming.
 
 
In a way I thought this was quite nice. I was thinking of Barry reminiscing about the time when he was young, being in the park with his parents, who are now deceased. I imagined Barry going back to an age where prejudices didn’t exist, and children played together and got on with each other without any problems. Barry has long been without anyone. He would come to the park and go into almost a trance like state. I visualized him in my head, holding hands with other children and singing ring-a-ring-a-roses. Little did I know, his thoughts were far from what I had envisaged. He was a pervert. A dirty, boulder headed pervert. And I was going to catch him out.
 
 
We stayed on those swings for about half an hour before I asked Barry if we could leave.
 
 
“Barry?”……”Barry?”…..”BARRRYYYY??!!” I had to bellow in his face. A small pool of drool had formed on the soft tarmac by his foot, not unusual for Barry, but there seemed to be a bit more than usual. He’s eyes stay transfixed on the two dogs.
 
 
“Let’s go” I said as I stood up from the swing. Barry followed from behind, almost hunched over. I thought it was the weight of his head, now I know the dirty secret he was trying to hide. Looking back to this moment, I should have seen the small bulge in Barry’s groin region, but like anyone that has ever seen Barry will tell you; it’s very hard to take you’re gaze away from his head.
 
 
Upon arriving at Barry’s house, he ushered me through to his living room. Sweeping a bird carcass and numerous empty packets of peanuts from the sofa, he offered me a seat. I brushed a few of the remaining feathers off the tattered upholstery and sat down.
 
 
“Would you like a drink of tea?” Barry spluttered.
 
 
“Please Barry; that would be nice”, I said, hiding my now growing fear about his mental state.
 
 
As soon as he was out of the room, I began looking for something. I didn’t know what, I just wanted evidence; something solid to go on. Something that would either prove me wrong and set my mind at rest, or would capture any dirty deeds Barry had been carrying out, and send the dodecahedron headed freak to prison.
I looked behind cushions, lifted carpets, opened draws and moved furniture. I was moving frantically but at the same time quietly, hoping Barry wouldn’t hear me as he could turn into an aggressive beast at the drop of a hat. I heard the click of the kettle as it finished boiling and knew I didn’t have long. Scampering around on my hands and knees, I spotted a silver object pushed firmly under the tight gap under the sofa. I snatched at it but it was wedged quite firm. Using the strength in my left wrist, I managed to push the sofa upwards, revealing a brand new laptop. I heard the clinking now of the spoons hitting the mugs as Barry stirred the tea. I stayed crouched by on the floor for what seemed like an eternity, but in truth was only about 30 seconds. As Barry walked towards the room, I decided to leave the laptop where it was and play it calm.
 
 
“My shoelace was undone” I said as Barry walked into the room.
 
 
He nodded and smiled as he handed me my tea, fortunately not noticing I had slippers on. His baggy eyelids probably played a part in this. We sat and talked for about 20 minutes. I was of a nervous disposition, sweating quite profusely, but Barry being Barry didn’t notice a thing. In my head I was trying to conjure a plan. How could I leave the house, armed with the laptop, without Barry noticing? Plans came into my head but I deemed them far too risky. There was only one thing for it.
 
 
“Take that you moron”. I flung my hot tea into the face of Barry and he yet out a loud shrieking cry, covering his face with his hands and falling to his knees. I lifted the sofa and grabbed the laptop making a run for the door. I could see Barry out of the corner of my eye starting to stand so I upped my pace and bolted out of the door, slamming it shut behind me. As I ran home, huge thoughts of doubt crossed my mind; what if Barry just liked animals? What if he wasn’t abusing them and I had just assaulted an innocent man?
 
 
I got home and went locked the door behind me. I shut every curtain in my house and made my way into the spare bedroom upstairs. The laptop whirred slowly as it started up, my heart was beating my against my rib cage so hard I could hear it. Once fully started up I began searching through the ‘My Documents’ folder.
There it was, a folder called ‘Fun’. I stopped for a deep breath and then opened it. What I saw will stay with me forever; images of Barry violating an array of animals. There were a couple of pictures of him fisting miniature horses and naked in bed with goats and sheep, all of whom I recognized from the local farm. There were more pictures of him, naked from the waist down, fellating various breeds of dogs. They looked happy, but you could see it in their eyes how uncomfortable they really were. There were hundreds of images of Barry receiving oral sex from birds. In one, what looked like a duck had its beak stuffed so full with Barry’s swollen member, his eyes were beginning pop out. In another picture, Barry was bent over with a live kipper dangling from his puckered anus, whilst Barry fingered a squirrel. It had its bushy tail tied upwards with a ribbon which had the other end attached to the ceiling. I’ll never forget the confused look in the squirrels face.
I felt sick but felt I had to look on. The next pictures I found were of Barry masturbating furiously over two chickens whilst smaller birds, possibly starlings, ate bird seed from the dents in Barry’s head. Barry had his tongue out, obviously enjoying the moment. There were more. One looked as though it was taken around Christmas time as there were decorations up. A badger was lay spread-eagled on the mould ridden floor, a mop protruding from its rear end. Barry was kissing it on the head, taking the photo with an outstretched arm. I started to look at pictures of Barry sodomising a tortoise when suddenly a thought hit me. Had Barry been violating and then killing these animals? It would explain the corpses in his house.
 
 
A small bit of acidic sick shot up my esophagus and into my throat, so I gulped it back down and sat in the darkened room; laptop still whirring quietly. I slammed it shut and started to sob gently. I let out tears for all the animals I had seen in those photos and the hundreds of others that probably met there untimely death to Barry, the man with the dodecahedron shaped head.
 
 
Gathering my thoughts, I went to the police station. I handed them the laptop and explained what had happened that afternoon and what I had seen Barry up to in previous weeks.
The next couple of days were traumatic to say the least. I had to give evidence against Barry and the local town found out what he had been up to. Phrases such as ‘Dodecahedron Dog Fiddler’ and ‘Freaky Mental Animal Sucker’ were daubed in graffiti onto Barry’s house.
 
 
I was proud with what I had done. Yes, I had lost a friend, but the man is crazy. I’ve found the locals to be a lot more friendly with me as well, more so than usual. I even received a £10 book voucher as a reward for putting Barry behind bars. There is a downside to all this though and that is the mental images that will scar my mind until the day I die. I hope all the animals that died may rest in peace, especially the miniature horse with the dreadlocks; I cannot ever imagine how he must have felt.
 
 
Apparently, Barry has tried to hang himself twice since his arrest, but on both attempts, his head proved too heavy and the noose snapped. He’s even tried to tar me with the same brush, saying I had intimate relations with a goat. What Barry doesn’t realize Is, that what I practice is a sport, not a sick fetish. I hope he rots in his cell, which, given the head size, may take a while…

The Greengrocer’s Daughter

7 Jul

When I was 18, I used to date a girl named Sarah, 21. Her father Bert was a greengrocer and a thoroughly nice chap and her mother Lucy was a very attractive lady and very welcoming. However, they probably wouldn’t have been so friendly if they knew what Sarah and I got up to with some of Bert’s produce.
Now, as I was still relatively young and a bit of an amateur when it came to sex, some of the things Sarah did shocked me a little to say the least. Highlights of our relationship included:

 

– Sarah using leeks as a makeshift dildo. Not just 1, a whole bundle of them, held in position with an elastic band. After climax, she’d lay exhausted and sweaty with leeks protruding from her spam purse, sticking out in all directions. I used to call her ‘The Praying Mantis’ when she was in this position as it looked like she had some extra green legs.

 

– She asked me whip her with runner beans. I felt a bit weird doing this, mainly because she’d hang a couple of turnips (tied in place by their stalks) to my scrotum and they’d dangle about like some sort of ball-bag tumour. I’d then have to have anal sex with her and push a turnip into her quim. She really got off on this

 

– I made some anal beads using 5 radishes and some nylon string. Getting them into her back passage wasn’t a problem, her sphincter seemed to lap them up, as if it was swallowing them. The problem occured when one end of the string came untied and one radish got left behind as I pulled the Rampant Radish(TM) out. Watching her poo the remaining radish out will stay with me forever – It was like a baby’s head crowning at first, and then it shot out at force and rolled across the bed. She let out a sigh in relief.

 

– She would make us dress as Adam and Eve. We’d wear cabbage leaves over our privates and she’d have huge mushrooms covering her nipples. After taking a bite from an apple she’d have to punish herself. This was done by me – my gutstick was the serpent and she’d suck me into oblivion

 

Those were the days.

Shitting off the wall…

23 Nov

Rowley whipped out his mobile phone and started to record me being sick. I hadn’t drunk an awful lot, but I’d been drinking on an empty stomach and so I was struggling to keep it down. Each time I felt some sick come up my throat I thrust my head forward and coupled this movement with a violent scream so that it looked like I was projectile vomiting. I know this is quite disgusting but we were merry and it amused us.

 

The sight of me appearing to be violently sick made Rowley laugh like a hyena. He struggled to hold his phone straight as he attempted to record me spewing onto the pavement. In fact, he laughed so much that he got a nose bleed. Until I witnessed this first hand, I didn’t think it at all possible. Rowley puts it down to the fact that he had a cold and had been blowing his nose a lot, but I still like to bring up ‘the time I made you laugh so hard you got a nose bleed’ with him now and again.

 

Anyway, when I saw that Rowley had a nose bleed, I asked him to pass me his phone. He handed it to me with one hand; his other was squeezing his nose, trying to stem the flow of blood from his nostrils. We were now both laughing at each other, and looking forward to watching the video back.

 

“Do you think we’ll get £250 for this on You’ve Been Framed?” I joked.

 

As I focused the camera onto Rowley, watching him try and mop up blood with leaves from the floor, I spotted something in the background on the screen. Taking my eyes away from the screen and looking at what was actually happening in front of me, I saw what it was that had caught my eye. On the head-height wall behind us squatted Ashley with his back to us, and he had his bum out.

 

“Rowley, look” I exclaimed, pointing out that Ashley was straining. We thought he’d gone home already as he was rather inebriated, but he’d obviously snuck back without us noticing. I returned to the camera and zoomed in, focusing on Ashley’s bum cheeks.

 

“Fuck me, he’s actually trying to have a shit” Rowley said enthusiastically and we both burst out laughing, not really believing what we were watching.  From the camera phone, I saw Ashley’s buttocks spread and the head of a fresh bog dolphin appear. Ashley remained focused on what he was doing, undeterred by the fact we were watching something that is normally private business.

 

I kept flicking the focus from Ashley back to Rowley, who was still bleeding from his nose, but when Ashley squatted even further, he got my full attention. The first turd was crimped off halfway through, by accident it appeared, as Ashley strained hard to get the other half free. Struggling to breathe, I had to get Rowley to take the camera and carry on the recording. We watched in amazement as Ashley quickly curled out another stool, which made a soft patting sound as it hit the pavement. As soon as it had left him Ashley adopted a standing position on the wall, still with his back to us.  There he stood, in silence, for 30 seconds or so, whilst Rowley and I rolled around on the floor in hysterics, being careful to avoid Ashley’s two steaming turds that sat proudly by the wall.

 

Still will filmed though waiting to see what he would do next. He didn’t disappoint.

 

Ashley quickly reverted to his squatting position on the top of the wall and steadied himself by holding onto a branch from a tree. Then, with his other hand, he began with the fastest bum wiping technique I think I will ever see. In one swift motion he would grab a leaf from the tree, swipe him arm downwards and round to his crusty sphincter.  He wiped as he passed his hand down and dropped the leaf to the ground. Then his hand would return straight back up above his head to grab another leaf, and the cycle would be repeated. I’m not exaggerating when I say he was getting through a wipe every 3 seconds using this method. He was going at it like a crazed man – to date it is one of the funniest things I have ever seen.

 

Eventually Ashley finished wiping. Still with his back to us, he pulled up his trousers and leapt off the wall, before running off up the road screaming like a small retarded animal. Rowley and I looked at each other and just carried on laughing. My jaw was actually aching I had laughed so much. There we were, seemingly alone, recording ourselves drunk, when Ashley had snuck back to find us and had become star of the show.

 

As you can probably imagine, the video spread like wildfire. We edited it so it cut Rowley and me out (although you could hear us wailing with laughter in the background still) and we would Bluetooth it to random people in the pub. One Friday night I sent it to a girl’s name that appeared on my Bluetooth and then looked around the pub trying to work out who had received it. I soon spotted a group of girls on the other side of the bar and they all gathered around to watch the video that an anonymous stranger had sent them. Through the cries of utter disgust, I heard one voice pipe up, “He’s wiping his backside like he’s on drugs”. That comments was enough to send a torrent of Guiness out of my mouth and across the table. I’d always wondered what a druggy looked like when they wiped their bum.

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