Radio Phyllis.

“That’s Simply Red there, an experience rather like waking up dead on your birthday, and then finding out you’re bankrupt.

Anyway, it’s five to one, and time for our “shout-outs”. Pitiful mewlings from the tiresome boneheaded public. A sea of vomit-inducing detritus. Also, isn’t it sunny. Etc.

Paul from Bromley says he’s planning a potato growing later. Burying of a spud starts at three. Bring your own shovel. He also says he’s got some manure to sell. So get some of that.

Alice is acting out key scenes from Fifty Shades with a sock puppet for depressed pensioners in the Mottlesea retirement home at seven. Bring your own whip. Refreshments provided, though she does say at your own risk.

Lastly, here’s a dedication from Penny, to her husband Derek; You destroyed every last ember of faith I ever had in love. Your sickening balls both irritate and nauseate. Your attempts at sex are like a dead moth sliding down a piss soaked wall. Fuck off. Here’s 10cc. Fuck off.”

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The gigs of the future – Ed Sheeran

The gigs of the future.

“2023.

80,000 turned up to literally watch Ed Sheeran shit into a bucket.

The entire set conisted soley of the singer dropping his trousers, squatting, and blasting feces into a bucket. Over, and over, continually eating to create enough waste to fill a 2 hour set.

“Sheperd’s Bush Empire! I am Ed Sheeran! Taste my shit! Smell my shit! Embrace my shit!”

*Footage of Sheeran squatting, cock and balls out, coiling off turds in front of screaming fans. His face is contorted, he’s grimacing and sweating profusely. At the end, the camera zooms right in on his hot, shit-blasted arsehole.*”

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Talkin’ shit with the GP

I went to the GP today to get some cheerpills. Mental thrillness capsules. I also got a tub to shit in. I think it’s for tests. I hope it’s for tests.

I sniggered in the waiting room, imagining the receptionist getting up and putting two hands in the air and shouting “WELCOME TO THE MEAT GRINDER!”, for no reason at all. My tendency to laugh in the wrong place was about for a bit, and continued in the appointment when the conversation turned literally to shit.

She gave me a tub to lay a bum egg in. I don’t know how I’m going to cope with that. Shitting into a tub for a start. It’s hard enough to hit the bottom of a toilet bowl with any accuracy, let along passing it straight into that. Am I going to have to push it in? What if it’s massive? Do I need to cut it up first? Then taking it through town, knowing I am quite literally carrying a tub OF MY OWN SHIT ABOUT.

I’ve written sketches like this. Now I’m living it. And then I have to hand it over to the surgery. What If I give it to the wrong person? Hello, here’s a tub of my shit. Hope you enjoy it.

Stinking up the feces fun.

I kept laughing my way into town again, and went to pick my pills up. The fun continued, as I sat down to wait and Blondie’s Heart of Glass played. I mentally sang it like this:

“Tugged my cock, and it was a gas, wanked myself, in a house of glass.”

I chuckled my way home.

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Peter Jackson’s proper norsed it up again.

Peter Jackson: G’day sports! Come to congratulate me on the brilliant Hobbit films that I done with  my two bare hands?

Accountant: Actually, no. There’s been a…..er…problem.

Peter: Strewth! Alright, spit it out, money boy. My sacks are over-due for a piss draining.

Accountant: The film’s gone a littler over budget.

Peter: You what? How much?

Accountant: Well, interestingly enough, the entire film can be done exactly how it was…er…..will be when it’s released, except….

Peter: Except bloody what you flaming galas?

Accountant: Well, you can have the film precisely the way intended, but there is not enough money to render ANY of the scenes with the dragon Smaug.

Peter: You gotta be fucking joking me.

Accountant: Nope, and conveniently enough, there’s definitely no money left, anywhere, at all. And no hope of getting it.

Peter: FUCK! Get me the fuckin’ props department!

Prop man: Hello, Peter. It is me. The prop man.

Peter: Prop man you cunt! What…what are we gonna do?

Prop: Well, I’e got it sorted out. We just…right….we…

Peter: What? Spit it out yer fuckin’ toilet!

Prop: We’ve still got Benedict Cumberlans. We can stick him in a dragon onesie and give him a loudhailer.

Peter: AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!! Oh well, maybe people won’t notice with the 3d in it.

Prop: We’ve knocked up a poster for it. Check it out.

 

BASRREEE

Peter: What the FUCKIN’ HELL IS THIS? I’M FUCKIN’ RUINED! THEY’LL EAT ME ALIVE! aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

 

 

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Radio Slimes.

I’m not a fan of radio. Anyone will tell yer! They’ll say….”Phyllis, he doesn’t like the radio”, pointing in my direction and jabbing to make the point stick.
I’ll nod, pull up a chair, and sit on it backwards, telling them why. I don’t like people talking over music. I don’t like most music. And I don’t like the stinking public, who phone in to talk about their boring lives and trying to win a day off with Plan B.

I don’t know what that means really.
I’d like radio more if it was presented in a style I liked and appreciated. As in, deranged, cruel, dark, horrifying.
“That was the barking dogs hour – 60 minutes of the best barking dog noises, all hour. Uninterrupted mate, uninterrupted. That particular hour contained doberman, daschunds, German Sheperds, all of ’em. All of ’em.
I’m Benny Chipotle, and you’re listening to Chungus FM. (Named after Jim’s classic word, of course)
Coming up! Your shit phonecalls, wasted time and effort for nothing. Call in and tell me what you’re doing and I’ll pretend to care, which I don’t. Here’s a new one; it’s four minutes of a dot matrix printer printing out a nude picture of a woman. Fuck off.

Sort of like that. Imagine more of it….
“Yep, a fine recording there. Vegetable Garden, with Limpet Limp Dick you Prick. Tons of fun. They’ll be in the studio next week, bringing some of their cum for you cunts to win, and drink, if you fucking want.
Paul from Deal phoned us. The fucking wank has nailed his head to his knee. Bellend. For you, Paul, here is Screaming Screamers with The sound of screaming.”
*Four minutes plays of just hysterical screaming. The dj can be heard throughout, wanking to orgasm*

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My Olympic Ideas

Also got some Olympic event ideas, since you’re asking. YOU WERE ASKING.

1. Dog-Head 100m.

Contestants have to run 100m while wearing incredibly heavy, wet clothes. The piece of the resistance is the addition of a full sized German Shepard, gaffa-taped to the head. Also the dog has been given a lot to drink, so the danger of pissage is incredible. Also, a man is employed to poke the slower runners with a fucking stick to “Encourage” them.

2. Milk Chug Glugalug. Contestants have to down massive bottles of milk, then when they are inevitably sick, they have to do it through the hole in a massage table, directly onto a coin fifteen feet below.

3. Nicholas Lyndhurst Goodnight Sweetheart Shagathon. Contestants have to dress up as Nicholas Lyndhurst from the terrible sitcom, including wearing a mask of his face. They’re totally blind because there are no eye-holes. They then have to wander a facsimile of 1940s London, complete with cardboard cut-outs and fake buildings, having sex with the very first object they touch. And there would be many, many objects. Some living, some not living, some dangerous, some not. The most points are awarded for jizzing into a gigantic mouth based on…yes….Nicholas Lyndhurst’s.

4. Rolling Marathon.

Contestants take part in this grueling marathon, sorting out the wheat from the chaff. 26 miles, as usual, but they have to do it by rolling the distance. While wearing nothing. Nothing at all. Across incredibly unforgiving surfaces.

Now fuck off.

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Titanic: Jack’s Drawings.

“Jack, I want you to draw me like one of your French girls.”

 

“Alright. ”

LATER

“This alright?”

“What the fuck is this?”

 

topwank

“It’s a man wanking on a top hat.”

 

 

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