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.

Thursday, 15 September 2011

The Duchess And The Truck Driver (Part 2 of 4).

Gertie studies the ape-man for a long time before replying.
“Well, my car seems to be having some engine trouble, and I don’t know the first thing about how to fix it. I don’t suppose you know anything about car maintenance, do you?”
As she expects, the ape-man shakes his head sadly.
“Sorry miss, I just drive the things, don’t know shit about the way they work, pardon my French.”
“That’s quite alright, I’m used to it.” Gertie takes out another cigarillo, and attempts to light it with an expensive Zippo. Click, click, click. Nothing. How dreadfully embarrassing. Just then, the ape-man steps forward, proffering a cheap plastic lighter and wearing a grin as though he’d just discovered fire. Holding his hand to steady the flame, she gets a strong whiff of chips. She loves chips. She always used to have them before…sex.

She sure is looking at him oddly, Terry thought. Maybe he has something stuck in his teeth. He glides a tongue over them, which the woman raises an eyebrow at.
“So, where are you headed to, anyway?” Terry says, slipping the lighter back into his pocket.
“To a dinner party hosted by the Earl of Margate.”
Terry rocks back on his heels, whistling appreciatively. “Didn’t realise Margate had an Earl.”
“Better that you don’t, the man’s a fuckwit –
Terry glances up.
- pardon my French”, she adds, walking over to where his truck stands like a slumbering giant, ready to be awakened at the slightest touch.
She runs her manicured finger along the gleaming paintwork and flashes him a saucy little grin. It’s a lovely smile, the kind that works like emotional Viagra. She certainly reminded Terry of his mother.
“Is this your truck?” she breathes.
Terry puffs out his chest with pride.
“Certainly is. Do you like it?”
“Mmm. It’s awfully…big, isn’t it?”
He steps up behind her and whispers in her ear.
“I can handle it.”
She turns and their faces are mere inches apart. The threat of sex hangs in the air like a sticky mist, and they can both sense it.
“Can I see inside?” she says, looking up at the cab with wide eyes.
“Of course, let me help you.”
As she clambers up, Terry gets a sneak preview when she momentarily opens her legs. Wasting no time, he reaches forward and slips a workmanlike finger up the leaky valley, then whips it out and sniffs it guiltily. She squeals like a naughty schoolgirl and scrambles behind the wheel, pretending to drive the truck. Terry climbs in and, no sooner has he shut the door than their faces instantly seek one another out, like mouth-to-mouth missiles.

Monday, 12 September 2011

The Duchess And The Truck Driver (Part 1 of 4).

Terry’s eyelids sag dangerously. He’d been at the wheel for the last 13 hours straight, and was getting tired. If he doesn’t find somewhere to stop soon, he’ll have to make do with a lay-by. Just then, something catches his eye. A flickering neon sign advertising ‘Foo N F el’ was beckoning to him just as surely as if it had been the ‘come hither’ gesture of a toothless prostitute. Terry flicks on the truck’s indicator and guides all 18 wheels of his vehicle into the muddy parking lot. He pulls up next to some fancy foreign-looking jalopy and aborts the engine’s lustful yet soothing voice. Sitting back in his seat, he imagines the burger he’s about to order. The supple buns, the yielding lettuce, the tender cheese, the moist meat, the huge breasted tomatoes. He rubs at the crotch of his leatherette driving breeches, which are becoming tighter by the second. God, he was lonely. He needed the love of a good woman sure as he needed oxygen, but commitment was like carbon dioxide to him. It sent him to sleep. He shakes his head and swings the door of his rig open. The instant he steps down from the cab, the cold night air descends on his exposed flesh like an army of sadistic schoolchildren wielding compasses.

Gertie watches from behind tinted glass at this ape lowering himself out of his truck. She takes a drag on her cigarillo and observes as he removes his filthy cap, scratches the thinning hair on his head, replaces the cap, scratches his crotch, yawns, scratches his rear end, and finally ambles off in the direction of the twinkling lights, obviously drawn by the prospect of food. It’s like being at a zoo, she notes with perverse delight, but a zoo where you can climb into the cages and fuck the animals. Even though she’d only eaten an hour ago, she was hungry. Hungry for his cock. And what Gertie wanted, Gertie generally got. One final puff and she ejects the flaccid dog-end out of the window, where it joins all the other flotsam and jetsam. Then she waits…

Terry saunters awkwardly back to his truck, his belt loosened and dangling limply, his stomach bloated with all manner of greasy meat products. He stops when he spies the door of the sports car wide open and a statuesque leg planted with caution on the grimy earth. A haze of smoke surrounding both vehicles completes the effect. As he approaches the open door, the leg is joined by another, and a figure eases itself out of the vehicle. As the owner of the legs turns her head to look at Terry, time stands still. He soaks in every detail of this magnificent beauty. Her golden hair flows in shimmering locks down her face, swaying sensually with every movement she makes. Her eyes smoulder with untapped sexual potential, and her mouth breathes out a seductive sigh on which you could hang the stars. But it's her cleavage to which Terry’s roving eye is immediately drawn. If he lived another 100 years, he’d be lucky to see a rack half as good. Christ, he muses, you could lose an army down there. He’d fallen arse over tit in love.

“Can I help you?” Gertie asks politely. The ape-man seems to be in a sort of trance, transfixed by her breasts. Great, he’s a monkey and a pervert. Still, it turns her on like a tap, this greasy slab of cholesterol and blubber. She always had had a thing for guys from the wrong side of the tracks.

“Sorry miss”, he manages, “I was just wondering why someone like you would be in a place like this?”

Monday, 5 September 2011

Bad Poetry, Vol. 1

The View From My Window

What do I see when I look out of my window?
A car, another car, and another,
3 cars, 3 cars! And a van,
A branch swaying in the breeze,
As if to say, 'Alright?'

A bus stop, cold and empty,
Because it's Sunday, and there aren't any buses on a Sunday,
A man shaking his fist at the sky,
As though cursing the gods themselves,
Because it's Sunday, and there aren't any buses on a Sunday,
We've just been over this.

A cloud shaped like a human heart,
Could it be a metaphor? I don't know,
I was away when we did that in English,
Another cloud shaped like a bear,
That's not a metaphor, I just really like bears.

And then, a face looking back at me,
A familiar face, a friendly face,
I smile and he smiles,
Then I pick up the phone and call the police,
Because it's a peeping tom, and he's not wearing any trousers.

Untitled 1

She broke my heart into so many pieces,
That even now I'm finding bits months later,
Stuck in the soles of my feet,
I must've hoovered about 10 times since,
It's really irritating,
And has cost me at least 3 pairs of socks.

Untitled 2

I remember his funeral as though it were yesterday,
It seems like a lifetime ago,
Ironic really, the one time he wears a suit,
And he's not alive to enjoy it.