F**king Hell! C**segnalazioni to Otterfox for wanking it. PM me with a subject for next wank please.
Meanwhilst..
3 - Otterfox
1 - Me
Next topic: School
Leg closed: 22.3.25
Runners are nowt...
Position Score Name
1 - 9 - Otterfox
2 - 4 - Gappy
3 - 2 - Me
4 - 1 - Aplate
[4 mid-forties friends laughing in a pub. Cut to them all giggling and singing the theme to Cities Of Gold]
1: That was a brilliant show.
2: And I'll tell you another. Who remember The Adventure Game?
[Chorus of agreement]
3: That was amazing. "doog yrev".
4: Wasn't there some sort of pot plant at the end that could kill you? He was somebody's grand-dad or something
2: Uncle!
1: Yeah, that's it. He was an uncle, and he would eat, like, Cheggers at the end.
3: OK, OK, who remembers...school?
1: [Simultaneous] Yes I do!
3: [Simultaneous] That was cool!
4: I don't think I can remember that.
2: Oh, sure you do. It was on every week day.
1: And everyone had to wear this little tie.
4: Oh, wait. Yes, I think I vaguely recall it. Was there, like, a bike rack, and some pencils, and a big room everyone had to go to in the morning?
3: That's it. And, there was a big [1 joins in] test at the end
4: A bit like The Adventure Game.
2: Yes, I've got you now. That was brilliant. They should totally bring that back.
1: Well, I'll tell you something; it's still going
All: Never! No way! [etc]
1: It's still going. I've seen it.
4: I bet it's not as good as it used to be though.
1: No, they've changed it. There are, like, computers and stuff now.
3: It's not as good as it was.
2: No.
[Momentary pause for reflection]
1: Hey! Who remembers nappies?
All: Yes, I do, they were cool.
1: You could totally shit yourself any time you liked.
GRANGE UPHILL GARDENER
CLASSROOM. Sweet TEACHER and bored-crapless KIDS.
TEACHER Good morning children and you, hello, hello and good evening and hello. In this afternoon's bit of tail - and I can't believe I'm still ding that joke: you see, my darlink lickle fwiends, tail means 'intercourse' or 'love-making' or 'f**k', whilst 'head' refers to cunnilingus or Arkansas pork roll, especially for our Yankee wankee fwiends and their hilarious 'head or tail' joke... Apologies for my language. I meant, (bad American accent) 'heeeadd oww twail' joke. Well it's all fine by me, just as long as they don't do me up the back passage. F**king assholes! And don't laugh, little Jack Horny: you'll be doing it yourself soon, and I don't care if your bum does hurt afterwards... Where the f**k was I?
KID You're here. You haven't moved.
TEACHER Oh well done, Roger Deans. Haven't heard that one before... So today's bit of f**k is a change, because unlike Bob Geldof, I like to change, and like the circumcised trannie, I like to chop and change - which reminds me: I hate trannies - they can f**k themselves! (laughs hysterically)
SILENCE.
TEACHER Well, in the words of the Sunday school '''teach'''er, you'll get it when you're older... And bi the gay, don't write in and say that's homophones: it is not. I'm actually ripping the shit out of f**king trannies... So lie back, drop your panties and come well for Silly C**ter and Gay Friars Splooge, and if there's one thing that, in the words of Virgil, really f**ks me off, it's fat bastards who complain about 'body-shaming': it ain't f**king body-shaming, it's just true: you are one fat f**king bastard. I mean, where's yer real chin? You gor f**king headlights on yer ass so you can see when you need to take a dump? F**k me, you make Humpty f**king Dumpty look like f**king Victoria f**king Beckham. It ain't f**king body-shaming, it's you: you spend all f**king day stuffing yer chops with pizza, yer never exercise anything except a five knuckle shuffle over that Spice Girls video when they're in the desert and even Victoria looks like she's got a fine set of funbags, yer always sitting on yer fat arse - 'Oooh, clever me! I just minge - binge watched all Harry f**king Potter,' well f**king done, since when has shit - sitting on yer arse doing f**k all been something to be f**king proud of?
TEACHER About 2007, Miss.
TEACHER F**king shut the f**king f**k up, and I don't care if you ARE the head, which is also what you give in detention, along with a good beat with the cane and that isn't an innuendo this time: it's just true... I mean, have you ever met a fat bastard who'll admit it's their f**king fault? Never their fault is it? Always, 'I'm not fat: I just got big bones...' Big bones, eh? Yeah, big soft bines. Big soft squishy bones dragging out yer arsehole as you waddle back to Mc-f**king-Donald's: not you fault at all. And if you think that's fattist, good, because it is... Now f**king shut the f**king f**k up and come well to a wank of fiction that's so prejudiced it makes Enoch Powell fook - look like Ben f**king Elton:
Chapter 69 and a portion and a bit on the side
Silly C**ter Pulls It Off For Gay Friars' Splooge
Book One. Part One. Chapter One. Bit One. One.
SILLY CUNTER KNOWS HOW'S YER FATHER
'AND a f**king cake!'
Silly C**ter's prick up his fat ears. What a fat bastard. Silly C**ter really was one really fat fat f**king fat, overweight, obese and - well, just f**king fat bastard, and that ain't f**king body-shaming and all that f**king shit, which sounds like anal sex, not that a fat old bastard like C**ter was ever gonna get any action. He was too fat. And if you think that's prejudiced, wait - or rather don't: this is shit - till the bit about the Indian guy, I mean for f**k's sake, it's f**king 2025, not the f**king colonies, who do you think you f**king are - some kinda superstar? - Frank f**king Dickhard, this isn't f**king Enid f**king Bumton you know, you make Adolf Hitler look like Emma Bumtone, no f**king wonder George Orwell emitted that famous f**king diatr - diot - thing proclaiming, 'You are a f**king piece of f**king shit,' to which Dickhard proudly re-butt-ed, 'Well I think YOU'RE a f**king piece of f**king shit with knobs on and balls on to boot, takes one to f**king know one, I know you are.' Mind you, this was the c**t who used talking pigs and geese on a magic farm to talk about the Russian Revol - Rev - Thing and thought no one'd f**king get it. Smart!... Where the f**k was I? Oh yeah. F**k...
'And a jam-roll and spotted dick and love scrotums!'
And C**ter blinked at Lost Cherry, his one fat little fat round fat eye glistening like fat spunk behind his fat big fat round fat spectacles, 'cos you always put the knobwit in specs, right? Tee hee f**king hee... 'Cake' was a magic word to Bunter, like Paul Daniels without the short-arsed twot in the way. 'Vizier's finger' was Spice Girls to his fat ears. 'Racial stereotype with no balls and a long banana' was - well, just f**king awesome, right? The Fat Bastard of the Removed Foresk was deep in - sorry, deeply interested
'And a dozen creamy nut sacks,' went on Bob.
'F**k!' breathed C**ter.
Bob Cherry seemed to be serving - I mean, serving bearded clams, Baloney pony and boob juice in the school shop at Gay Friars' Splooge. The Fingered Five - and I think Enid Bumton owes someone a few quid - that's the Bum Chums, Bosom Pals or the Co-Eds: Lost Cherry, Anal Wart, Johnny Bull (and that isn't an innuendo either: 's just true), Roger New Gent and the racial stereotype one that would make Spike Milligan in 1984 go, 'F**k' - couldn't wait to finger some nude crunk balls, cemen dip and urinal tea. They couldn't wait to eat either. It was after prep with Squelching, and C**ter was thinking of food and food and f**king more f**king food, the f**king fat f**king bastard. Unfort - unf - oh f**k, the fat bastard had been let down, and it'd take a f**king industrial suction pump to let that fat bastard down, the fat bastard, I mean he'd been expecting, and he f**king looked like he was expecting, the fat bastard, only how the f**k could he be? Who'd wanna bone that fat bastard? He'd be more likely to chew a f**king bone, the fat bastard. What a fat bastard he was.
Anyway, C**ter expected a postal order, you old f**king fogey, it's all on-line these days, and I don't mean your waist-line C**ter, you fat bastard. He'd f - looked in at Gaylord Maulvag's study, not that the lazy fat bastard ever studied anything except how to be a fat bastard, the fat bastard, but Gaylord had come out and was dipping his finger in some old man's ginger fluff, lucky old man... But then Lost Cherry came - sorry, came in and the fat bastard got his gropes up as he listened in, the eavesdropping fat f**king bastard.
'And a honeypot, Cincinatti threeway and hair pie...'
'Oh, anal scissors!' spurted C**ter as its fat one fat eye popped fatly through his fat panties, at the bulging packet Mrs. Quim was wrapping up for Lost Cherry. Safe sex and all that. But f**k, for Cherry did not even eye-tittie the fat bastard as he grasped his sagging packet in all dick beaters and just f**ked off outa it to practise getting his balls into the fish nets.
'Cheerio, C**ter!' he squirted.
'Do we get those as well?' ejaculated C**ter in glee and his stupid gay fat panties.
'I meant 'Cheerio' as in 'F**k off, you f**king fat c**t,' Cherry informed the f**king fat c**t.
'F**k,' returned that fat c**t.
She looks around: One KID, stuffing its face with chocolate eclairs.
It was three days before Christmas and I had been sent to the village on pony and trap to pick up the last of the supplies. My father was busy degoosing the turkeys and my mother was in the drawing room practicing her ju-jitsu.
The snow lay heavy on the ground as I prepared for my first solo journey. They said that I was a mere slip of a lad of sixteen but as I was still fifteen, you can imagine how much more of a slip I actually was. No matter my slippy levels, I was determined to do a good job. Off I set on my lone mission. Just me, the horse, the cart and a large canvas sack. All four of us were glad to round the corner at Bounders Bridge and we looked forward to warming ourselves by the fire of the nearest establishment. I say 'we', but it was really only me going in, and at a push, the bag. The others would stay outside and keep watch.
*neigh* (horse voice) 'but what are we keeping watch for?' I asked. Doing the voice of the horse helped me pass the time and keep my mind off the cold.
'Look, horses don't go shopping', I replied sternly.
*neigh* (horse voice) how do you know we can't. You've never even let me try.'
Lad:
I didn't say you can't. I said you don't.
Lad as horse:
*whinney* now we're into semantics. I've been saving up my pocket money all year. I'd love to go shopping. I brought you here didn't I. It would be extremely disappointing, after travelling all this way if you won't let me go in.
Lad:
Look! Ok! I'll see what I can do ok! But it's highly unorthodox. Wait, who's keeping watch with the cart then?
Lad as Horse:
The bags will do it.
Lad as bag:
)squeaky voice) no we won't. You promised us that we could go in before the horse ever kicked up a fuss.
Lad:
I can't leave the cart here by itself in the Main Street. I'll push it up towards the school and park it outside.
Fx struggling.
Lad:
Ugh my back!
Lad as horse:
Oh my God! What an idiot. I'd have done that for you no bother.
Lad:
Shut up!
Lad as horse:
No.
Lad: (intense)
Look, you're on very thin ice! One more step out of line-
Lad as horse:
Oh yeah. And what are you going to do? Huh? Huh? You want a piece of me?
Lad:
What the hell am I doing? I'm fighting myself as a horse, fighting myself as me and also being a bag. Must be brain freeze, plus my face is frozen ear to ear.
We reached the shop and strangely, the horse was let in without incident. The bags however were told to wait outside. We filled the bags quickly and headed back to the cart outside the school. A thick freezing fog had begun to descend and we were eager to get back home before dark.
We were shocked to see an old woman of about eighty running circles around the cart at an alarming rate.
Woman:
Oh you've done it now.
Lad:
*neigh* (horse voice) done what now?
I asked, briefly forgetting which voice was actually mine.
The woman stood in confusion before completing two more laps around the cart.
Woman:
You parked an empty cart outside the school. Some time ago there was a boy who, at Christmas, was left alone in the school. His father, being a cruel sort would park his empty cart outside the school to torment the boy. Without the horse attached he had no way of getting home.
Lad as horse:
Told you. You're not supposed to lift it yourself.
Woman:
That's right. And so the boy would stare out the window all over Christmas, longing to be at home enjoying the festivities. Now that you have done that same thing, you have awakened the spirit of that same boy.
Lad:
Did he die?
Woman:
Um, I suppose...I'm not rightly sure. Regardless, you have served a bitter reminder to him today. They say his ghost still roams the corridors of St. Spinnigans. Staring out the window at this time of year, hoping against hope to see a horse drawn carriage parked and waiting to take him home.
Lad:
If you don't know that he's even dead, how is he a ghost?
woman:
Oooou, they say he's haunted. The boy is haunted..by a ghost. The ghost is, um haunted, yes, haunted. He's a haunted ghost. You'll never get past Bounders Bridge, never!
And with that the woman spun into the fog, disappearing in a circular fashion.
We paid little heed to the old woman's ramblings, attached the horse to the cart and off we set.
Easing our way through the thick fog we reached the edge of the village, only to realise that we seemed to be at the opposite end of the town. Doubling back, then trebled back the other way and thought about quadrupling before we realised that we were hopelessly lost.
Lad:
We're going around in circles.
Lad as horse:
Just like the old woman.
Lad as bag:
I've got a compass in here somewhere.
Lad:
Great thinking bag...aha! Right, we know home is east.
Lad as horse:
What are we at now? Sextupleting back the other way.
Lad:
I don't think it's called sextuplet...we much be close to Bounders- woooahh!
That 'woah' was to signify the horse and cart was teetering on the edge of the embankment by Bounders Bridge. We could hear the rushing water below but in the fog we could see nothing. If there's one thing I hated it was teetering on the edge of something. No, give me flat open spaces any day. I tried in vein to free us from our plight, but the more I tried, the more we teetered. There couldn't have been much more teeter left before a fall would happen. I pulled, I dragged, I spoke to the horse, I spoke as the horse, but to no avail, he just couldn't get his footing. Maybe the old spinning lady was right, we never would make it past Bounders Bridge.
When we had just about abandoned all hope, a silhouette emerged from the misty haze. Not just a silhouette, it was also a person, a small person, it was a ten year old boy of about twelve.
Quick as a flash he slid under the cart taking the reins with him, bounced off a tree and toppled down the embankment never to be seen again...or so we thought. He rose up with an almighty surge bringing the horse and cart with him to safety.
Lad as horse:
Who are you that is so skilled in the art of rescue?
Boy:
I'm the boy from the school.
Lad:
So you're not a ghost then?
Boy:
I'm definitely not a ghost. Why would you think that?
Lad:
Well you certainly have some unearthly powers.
Boy:
Nah, I can promise you that all the powers I have are earthly ones.
The boy told us that his father did abandon him in the school every Christmas and that this year his father had gone a step further and ran away from home. He asked if my family would take him in but just as we reached the gate for home, the boy, he disappeared. The poor chap had fallen down the gap between the horse and the cart. I pulled him up and he seemed to be alright, just a bit dazed. My parents warmed to him straight away and that is how we took in the haunted ghost of St. Spinnigans.
Fox (Otter)
Gappy.
The Gapman for me this time.
Otterfox for me. In the nicest possible way, this is one of your most peculiar ones yet, you nutter.
Quote: a plate @ 24th March 2025, 9:29 PMOtterfox for me. In the nicest possible way, this is one of your most peculiar ones yet, you nutter.
I'm happy to accept such feedback 😂 in my head it seemed logical.