Wednesday, 28 December 2011

A Very Exposition-y Christmas!!!


Mmm-mmm, this turkey that you've cooked for today, Christmas Day, is lovely. Simply scrumptious!


I'm so glad you're enjoying it, darling. That's why I married you, you're always so complimentary about my cooking. What do you think, kids?


I want to go and play with my new train set that I got today from Granddad, who's sat over there.


I fought in a war!


I have no strong opinion about the turkey one way or the other.


That's why you're the second-born!


It's The Queen Speech in half an hour.


On the TV, you mean, not in our living room. That'd be silly.


You and your jokes. You should've been a comedian, not an insurance salesman, which is what you are.


I want to pull a cracker, then I want dessert. I'm excited because it's Christmas!


I'll pull a cracker with you. After all, it is tradition.



That sounded like a gun. I fought in a war!


Put on your paper hat. Dad, you can take the little sewing kit and fix those trousers of yours.


Fix my trousers? Next, you'll be burning your bra.


Takes me back to my youth, when I was a hippie.


So Dad, what's the true meaning of Christmas, anyway?


Yeah, tell us, what's the true meaning of Christmas?


Well, hundreds of years ago, a baby was born.


Was it Granddad?


Hey, cheeky! Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, by which I mean me?


My feet are cold. I can't remember if I fought in a war.


Oh, Dad!

Everyone laughs.


Come on, let's go and watch The Queen's Speech.

Everyone laughs.


God bless us, everyone! Except Granddad.

Everyone laughs.




He's dead.


Merry Christmas, everyone!

Wednesday, 26 October 2011

A Letter To The Council...

A letter I recently sent to my local council concerning an issue very close to my heart. No, not my aorta...

Dear Council,

For literally days now, I've been requesting a zebra crossing on the road outside my block of flats. I've tried bribery, flattery, even lying (alas, there was no school for the deaf blind. How would they find it?) So it's come to this: the power of the human imagination.

Imagine, if you will, that your whole body is made of breezeblocks, except for your feet, which are made from Velcro. And now imagine the road is also made from Velcro. And imagine you're carrying 18 bags of shopping. And the bags are made from cast iron. And the cars are all being driven by Jeremy Clarkson. And you’re Piers Morgan. And all this is happening inside The Sun. And you’ve got no sun-cream. And you need the loo. And you’re late for a dental appointment. Now double all that. That’s how hard the road is to cross.

And hey, if you can’t/won’t do that, maybe you could construct two retractable walls made from solid titanium. At the touch of a button (of which, I would be the sole possessor), they pop up out of the road, creating a natural (read: manmade) path for me to cross the road safely. Of course, this would cause the flaming deaths of a bunch of selfish motorists, not to mention requiring almost round-the-clock ambulance/fire/waste disposal services on hand to attend to the resultant chaos, but in war, there’s always casualties.

I urge you to do the right thing.

Yours Sincerely,

Sam Smith.

Turns out I sent it to The Arts Council by mistake.

Saturday, 8 October 2011

My Kid's Book! (First Drafts)

Yeah, so I thought I'd try my hand at penning a new kid's book. Here are the results. Enjoy at your peril...

There are so many things that begin with an 'A',
Like this little black insect that's busy all day,
A fruit you can pick in a bushel or peck,
A sex act where you wank with a belt around your neck.

Book, ball and bag all begin with a 'B',
Along with a black and yellow bug that produces honey,
I got this floaty treat on the day of the fair,
When my mum purged her junk food I held back her hair.

'C' is a letter with which many things rhyme,
Like this useful device to help tell the time,
This purring animal will wrap itself around your legs,
While these people prefer shitting on each other's heads.

Sunday, 2 October 2011

Jabberwocky (Revised Edition)

This new version of Lewis Carroll's classic nonsense poem was commissioned because school boards thought that the original might 'exclude pupils who already find English diffcult enough'. Have a look and see what you think...

It was midnight, and the leafy trees,

Did shake and rustle in the wind,

All shivering were the shrubberies,

And the moon shines brightly.

Beware the fearsome beast, my son,

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch,

Beware the vicious bird, and mind,

The dangerous animal.

He took his pointy sword in hand,

Long time the scary foe he sought,

So rested he by a big oak tree,

And stood awhile in thought.

And as in silent thought he stood,

The fearsome beast, with angry eyes,

Came running through the darkened wood,

And dribbled as it came.

One two! One two! And through, and through,

The pointy sword went stabby-stab,

He left it dead, and with its head,

He travelled slowly back.

And have you slain the fearsome beast?

Come to my arms, my brave, brave boy,

Oh awesome day! Hurrah! Hooray!

He beat boxed in his joy.

It was midnight, and the leafy trees,

Did shake and rustle in the wind,

All shivering were the shrubberies,

And the moon shines brightly.

Gotta be honest, it's missing a certain something...

Wednesday, 28 September 2011

We Didn't Start The Fire (2011)

Add in choruses/handclaps/ukelele solos as applicable.

John Major, Art Attack, Gulf War, Apple Mac,

Gameboys, Mitchell Brothers, Terminator 2,

Britpop, Jurassic Park, Tarantino, Pat Sharpe,

Bill Clinton, grunge invasion, and the films of John Woo.

Girl Power, Kim Jong-Il, The Internet, Shaquille O'Neal,

Trainspotting, PSOne, the art of Damien Hurst,

cloning Dolly, Saddam Hussein, Macarena, Sinn Fein,

CGI, Harry Potter, Opal Fruits became Starburst.

Brookside, Peter Kay, Pokemon, Subway,

The Matrix, Tony Blair, Mayan prophecies,

Bye bye China, mobile texts, Big Brother, cybersex,

Beckham's haircuts, David Brent, pirate DVDs.

Y2K fallout, Laserdisc up the spout,

American Pie, Gareth Gates, sexed up dossiers,

cancelling 3rd world debt, war on terror threat,

Myspace, Eminem, keeping online scum at bay.

Bin Laden, Steve Jobs, Cheeky girls, iPods,

Live 8, George Bush, Terminator 3,

Angus Deayton, climate change, Tom Cruise acting mighty strange,

Burkha banning, Freeview, Scientology.

Gordon Brown, BNP, Facebook, PS3,

Wayne Rooney, Spongebob, Derren Brown's mind tricks,

Youtube, Cheryl Cole, lots of people on the dole,

Heath Ledger, Higgs Bosun, gritty superhero flicks.

Barack Obama, drum'n'bass, what became of Myspace?

Sarah Palin, Jedward, Terminator 4,

Coalition, iPhone, students need a bigger loan,

Hacking scandal, Libya rebels, don't think I can say much more...

As heard on The Marmite Files 25/09/11.

Thursday, 22 September 2011

The Duchess And The Truck Driver (Part 4 of 4).

He looks on with excitement as she hits the buttons in the throes of her passion. Click! The headlights flick on, illuminating a billboard for Pizza Shack, which makes Terry’s mouth water. Click! The windscreen wipers scud into action, and he speeds up to match their rubbery rhythm. Click! The wiper fluid squirts up the glass, framing their illicit fuck session with bubbles and lather, and Terry struggles to control himself.
“Are you nearly there, lover?” she sighs lustily, her curly blonde hair snaking onto the leather seat in a highly erotic fashion.
“Yeah, my balls are about to explode. I’m gunna give you a pearl necklace to go with your diamond one.”
He knows he’s past the point of no return, and he extracts his love length from the duchesses gaping canyon just in time.
“Oh, Jesus”, Terry groans, as he fires a round of creamy shells from the end of his cock cannon. The first volley lands on the steering wheel, before dripping down like a spunk stalactite slowly to the floor. The next sticky rope flies across the cab and hits the duchess on the cheek, making her flinch. The third and final helping of sex saliva lands on her black dress, and she squeals in delight.

This was the part she’s been dreading the most; the ejaculating. She didn’t mind getting it on her face; she could clean that off easily enough. She just didn’t want any on her nice clean dress. But, lady luck saw to it personally that a generous wad of fuck fondant landed right in the centre of her outfit, creating a gooey runway. She’d have to wear something else now; she could hardly show up at a dinner party with a trucker’s sperm all over her dress, could she?
“Sorry love, hope that’s machine washable.” he chuckles. She glances over at him, his wilting dick still dribbling onto the seat.
“Hope the seat’s machine washable” she counters. He looks down at the mess he’s making and shrugs his shoulders.
“Wipe clean” he remarks, grinning like a moron who’s just won a shit-eating contest.

He watches her as she slips on the dress which he’d just given a baptism to. Terry sometimes wished he could fuck himself with his own schlong. He wrenches his oily jeans back up his hairy arse and attempts to stroke the duchesses golden locks. She eases playfully out of his reach, batting his hand away as she does so. What a minx. He clicks open the glove box and removes two half melted choc-ices.
“Want one?” he enquires, pushing the slimy wrapper under Gertie’s nose. She shakes her head coyly.
“Suit yourself”, he grunts, leaning back in his seat and tearing off the wrapping with his teeth, before spitting it out onto the floor of the cab. Just then, something catches his eye. He reaches into the glove box once more and extricates a little sheathed square.
“Ah, that’s where that was. Knew I had one of these bad boys kicking about somewhere.”
Gertie turns to face him. Her face paints a picture of distress, but Terry knows when a woman looks like that, she’s really turned on.
“You don’t want to go another round, do you?” he asks, waving the condom at her.
She slowly shakes her head.
“Uhh, I need to go. I think my car’s working now.”
“What? But how can you –
She pushes open the door and leaps down from the cab.
“Thanks for everything, I’ll be sure to keep in touch.”
Gertie steps over to her own car, gets inside, and turns the key in the ignition. It starts first time. She backs out of the truck stop, pauses to look at Terry, then speeds away up the road, the smell of burning rubber lingering in the night air like fuck fog.
Terry turns to study his own reflection in the rear-view mirror, amazed that her car started up perfectly. He spends a few minutes letting it all sink in, then grins at himself as he comes to one inescapable conclusion:
“Damn, I’m good.”

Tuesday, 20 September 2011

The Duchess And The Truck Driver (Part 3 of 4).

Gertie tries not to gag as his rancid breath is forced down her throat, and instead attempts to fight back his over eager tongue, pounding against hers like a slimy sumo wrestler. All the while, her elegant hands explore the alien terrain of Terry’s Y-fronts, searching for a way to release his swelling joystick from its cotton prison. Finally, she wrenches them halfway down his caber-like thighs, where they become drenched in treacle-like sweat. Glancing down at her prize, she feels distinctly like a runner-up in the sex lottery. Her eyes not so much feast as snack on his stubby little member, resembling as it does an angry gherkin motorcyclist. She curls two fingers around it and proceeds to tug, ignoring Terry’s groaning and writhing and general carrying on. Taking the time to acquaint herself with his comedy genitalia, she notes that his testicles resemble tiny desiccated gooseberries, and pray he doesn’t ask her to suck them or something equally repulsive. After a few minutes of this charade, Terry manages to bring himself out of his ecstatic stupor and speaks.
“How about we take that silver spoon out of your mouth and replace it with a pork sword?”
More like a pork cork, she thinks, but says, “Oh yeah baby, fuck my face arse!”

Terry starts fencing away like a dirty dentist, and wonders how he came upon such a find. It’s not every day you stumble across royalty, and now here’s one, kneeling on the floor of my cab and taste-testing my todger! Still, he ponders, as he repeatedly impales her face on his veiny rapier, how could she not resist? Even without my boundless charm and dashing good looks, there’s still the Terryminator to contend with.
After a while, he instructs her to lay flat across the seats and, with his pale arse cheeks pressed against the unforgiving metal of the door, plunges straight into her inviting gulch. He enjoys watching the Terryminator’s head disappear squelchily between thrusts, and leans forward to mine her more deeply for twat gold. At the same time, he grabs at her jiggling breasts like a hyper-active child trying to pop two balloons by squeezing them.

Oh great, now he’s found them, he won’t leave them alone. She watches with apathy as he paws at her chest with his gorilla hands, then begins gobbling at the nipples greedily. After a while, he starts to mumble sweet nothings into her ear. Well, they may as well be nothing.
“I’m gunna fuck you for an hour.”
“Your pussy is like fucking a watermelon.”
“I’m gunna come in your face.”
“I like your thumb up my arse.”
And so on. She looks around the cab for some mental stimulation; lord knows she’s given up finding any from him. Spying the dashboard, she begins fingering the many puckered buttons thereon, then one by one presses them out of sheer boredom.