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Someone said that the very existence of celebrities is perfect evidence of how bored and powerless we all are. Bollocks. Celebrities are great, especially The Gladiators, and knowing things about them we don't even know about our close friends is not only enjoyable, it is sexually arousing. Who hasn't tossed one off to the thought of Shadow injecting heroin into his eyes, if indeed he does, or thinking about Eastenders love rat Robbie's oral crabs, if indeed he has any?

I intend not only to tease you to erection with morsels of gossip, but to whack off your cock of interest until my eyebrows of writing things are matted with your semen of gratitude.


They're at it, you know. Like three rabbits on randy tablets, they are. Omar watches Uma eat exotic sandwiches (his favourite is a low calorie Brie and Grape torpedo). In the meantime, Una fends off wave after wave of imaginary ants, using an invisible broom. The ants are coming to steal Uma's sandwich, or would be, if they existed. Sometimes Uma eats a pretend sandwich to make the ant threat seem more viable. Meanwhile, Omar grumbles happily to himself, and strokes his own inner thighs slowly.


Three big fat men, who have been the subject of many comical skits. But the dynamics of a big fat three-in-a-bed has largely gone ignored by the tabloid press. What would they do? Even something as simple as three men pressing their helmets together becomes a logistical nightmare when you're dealing with such mounds of flab. Imagine three big fat bastards huddling together, sucking in their guts, trying for a second to get all three of their cocks touching in the middle. It wouldn't help that all fat people have tiny cocks, like a walnut sellotaped to a beach ball.


Even though they are father and son, Darth and Luke won't put aside their differences for a minute! After a few too many vodkas, Darth phones Luke up from the Death Star and challenges him to a race - in spaceships - to Dagobar and back. Luke accepts, but the naughty Darth swaps over all the signposts, sending Luke into the sun! However, using tantric sex magic with Princess Leia, he finds his way through and wins the race. "Drat, drat, and double drat," Mr Vader said as his radiator exploded three yards from the chequered flag. When Luke finds out that Leia is his sister, he stabs his eyes out and turns into a flower.


God, they're so fat!! Can you imagine sucking one of them off, with that sweaty sac slapping against your chin, whilst another one clumsily gropes behind you with fingers like scaled-up chipolatas? Jesus, is that what you like?


Every child's dream is to have a room full of tennis balls that they can clamber through, and pretend that they are flying with the tennis balls. In a world where tennis balls fly. Motionlessly. In rooms. Every child's nightmare is to live in a world of cricket balls, unforgiving cricket balls, evil red cricket balls, where cricket balls the size of hailstones rain down, big cricket balls chase you down the stairs and ask you hard Geography questions, and the biggest cricket ball in the world is your pillow. Every child's waking reality is a squash ball. It starts the day hard, but the more you squeeze it and slam it against the wall, the softer it gets and the slower it goes. That was, of course, primitive double entendre and in a more civilized world I would be shot.


Look, I don't want to labour the point here, but how do they actually do it? Does the woman go on top, while they lie there, flailing, useless and merry? Surely there isn't enough blood for their whole body and their cock? I mean, they do have the same amount of blood as humans, don't they?

Oh sure, they can sing... but I can buy a frigging CD and not have their gelatinous masses sliding around on my face. Oh, God, I want to vomit....


God Bless Her. Isn't she lovely? No, isn't she? Ar. She's very old you know. So old, in fact, that it can only be through the dark arts that she is alive. But isn't she nice? Yes, too nice. I don't like it. Mind, she's always got a smile on her face, hasn't she? Yes, like she knows something. Something we don't. Something about the dark arts.



To the Oompa-Loompas theme tune...
Burn her! Spurn her! Tear her frocks to bits!
Grind her spine and kick her in the tits!
Beat her! Eat her! Put her in the stew!
Slit her clit and make her eat your poo!

Um diddle-iddle-iddle, um diddle-ay,
Um diddle-iddle-iddle, um diddle-ay...
Don't bother tuning in on a regular basis for more titbits of harmless rumourmongery.
This page has remained unchanged since August '97. Ace.