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In a bungalow in Koh Phangan

Posted by Alex On March - 30 - 2013

Shabba Ranks was sitting on the bed in his deluxe beachfront bungalow in Koh Phangan, Thailand, not knowing what to do with himself. There was a knock at the glass door at the rear of the building.

Ranks rose and padded towards the door in his towelling slippers. He could make out a small, squat figure through the frosted glass. It was still knocking; slowly and feebly. He opened the door.

It was what appeared to be a young girl, although she was very hard to age. Her face and hair were almost that of a middle-aged woman, but she was so small and childlike, she cannot possibly have been full-grown. Despite her diminutive stature, she was squat and dumpy. She made a strange moaning noise, not unlike a person who is extraordinarily drunk.

“Yeah?” enquired Shabba Ranks.

The girl moaned some more and then extended her palm. It was very dirty and Ranks instinctively took a step backwards. Was she diseased? Was that why she was acting so strangely?

The girl moaned again and lifted her palm slightly. Was she begging?

“What? What do you want?” asked Ranks.

Again the girl moaned and the Jamaican dancehall star grew frustrated. “Whatever you want, the answer’s no,” he spat.

The girl slowly lowered her hand, turned and staggered off. Ranks shivered and then closed and locked the door.

After three or four minutes, there was another knock – this time at the front door. Ranks was immediately suspicious, but he couldn’t ignore the person. Once again, he rose from the bed and padded towards the door.

Ranks turned the door handle and then before he could open it even a single inch, there was a huge force and it was knocked wide open. Ranks stumbled and looked up just in time to see a fist en route to the middle of his stupid, fat, homophobic face. For just one moment – perhaps less than a picosecond – he felt the soft texture of velvet, but that quickly gave way to far less pleasing sensations as splintering bone savaged the flesh of his nose.

Ranks sank to the floor like a recently-popped helium balloon. Just before he lost consciousness, he thought he glimpsed a russet-coloured doublet, but he could have been mistaken.

A short time later, he awoke. No-one was there and he was aghast to discover that the bungalow no longer contained any cling film.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that all this happens a few years in the future when cling film has become a much sought-after commodity.

 

“Fuck, that’s steep,” said William Shakespeare, eyeing the giant rollercoaster in front of him.

“It’s the steepest in the world,” replied Sophie Ellis-Bextor.

“Not the biggest?” asked Shakespeare as a man ushered them towards two vacant seats.

“No, but the biggest doesn’t necessarily mean the best, as I keep trying to tell you.”

Ellis-Bextor took her seat and Shakespeare settled down next to her. Suddenly, he turned towards her and with an alarmed look, asked: “Are you talking about my balls?”

Ellis-Bextor grinned. “No, your penis, stupid. I was talking about your teeny-tiny, ineffectual, utterly dissatisfactory penis.”

The car lurched forwards and they began to climb.

“Definitely not my balls then?” said Shakespeare, his hands fidgeting in his lap.

“No, your balls are fine,” reassured Ellis-Bextor as the car reached its zenith. “It’s your minuscule baby mouse’s cock that’s the problem. It’s practically invisible.”

At that moment, there was a sudden acceleration that pressed them into their seats. All around them, people screamed.

When the car slowed at another incline, Shakespeare spoke again. “Just ‘fine’?” he said. “That’s all?”

Ellis-Bextor rolled her eyes. “Yes, they’re fine,” she said “Unlike that eensy-weensy nubbin of a dick in front of them.”

Again the car lurched forward and again the other passengers screamed. Ellis-Bextor raised her arms and let them flail in the wind as they spiralled round. Shakespeare remained motionless and mute.

The ride slowed and as they approached the station building, Ellis-Bextor turned to look at Shakespeare. He was crying.

“My penis is only small compared to my balls,” he whimpered. “You think that I’ve got small or medium-sized balls, so when you see that my penis is out of proportion, you assume it’s undersized.”

Ellis-Bextor didn’t know what to say.

Shakespeare tried to press part of his sheer linen collar into the corner of his eye, but it wouldn’t reach, so he dabbed at the tears with the sleeve of his jerkin instead. “I’ve got big balls,” he said. “I don’t know why you don’t interpret the penis-testicle ratio more favourably.”

They got out of the car and stood on the platform looking at each other. “They’re lovely and taut,” offered Ellis-Bextor.

A diving lesson on Koh Tao in Thailand

Posted by Alex On November - 29 - 2011

William Shakespeare emerged from the holiday bungalow in stockings, a shirt and…

“Is that a codpiece?” yelled Sophie Ellis-Bextor. “Tell me that’s not a codpiece.”

William Shakespeare looked down at his genital area. “Of course it’s a codpiece,” he said, confused.

“You cannot go diving wearing a codpiece,” stated Ellis-Bextor firmly.

“Why not?”

“Okay, let me put it this way: you cannot go diving with me while wearing a codpiece. In fact, the whole outfit’s wrong. Where’s your swimming costume?”

“What’s a swimming costume,” said Shakespeare, puzzled. “I swim in my underclothes. These are my underclothes.”

“Underclothes?” Ellis-Bextor looked like she had been exposed to a bad smell.

“Yes,” said Shakespeare.

Ellis-Bextor stared at the bard with a tense facial expression. Shakespeare stared back blanky, not comprehending what was going on. They were interrupted by the diving instructor.

“Oh, hello, that’s an outfit,” she said to Shakespeare.

“Yes, it is,” he replied, still looking at Ellis-Bextor and taking the instructor’s words as validation.

Ellis-Bextor’s eyes rolled backwards. They then appeared to knock her entire head in the same direction. When it bounced forwards again, it somehow expressed both resignation and despair.

“Let’s get down to the water,” said the instructor, cheerfully. “The others are already there.” Shakespeare strode after her, boldly. Ellis-Bextor trailed reluctantly.

As they were putting on their diving gear, Ellis-Bextor said quietly: “Please take the codpiece off. The rest of it will have to stay on now, but the codpiece has to go. Please. I really can’t put up with it.”

Shakespeare stopped what he was doing and looked at her earnestly. “I can. That’s fine. But I’m really surprised at you.”

He reached down to detach his codpiece and as he did so, the instructor moved along the line of diving novices and arrived at them. The movement caught her eye and she looked down in time to see the bard’s surprisingly hairy knob and bollocks being exposed to the world.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” exclaimed Ellis-Bextor.

“What?” shouted Shakespeare. “You told me to do this.”

“I didn’t know there was nothing under there. Why the hell is nothing under there?”

“Why the hell do you think I wear a codpiece? All my pairs of hose have an opening.”

Shakespeare threw the codpiece across the beach, embracing the liberty afforded his sexual parts. He planted his fists on his hips and admired himself.

Ellis-Bextor turned away and was a little surprised to see the diving instructor still taking a keen interest in the playwright’s nether regions.

Shakespeare noticed too. “Looking forward to going down?” he asked.

The Royale Chulan Hotel in Kuala Lumpur sees a kerfuffle

Posted by Alex On August - 30 - 2011

“They didn’t get it,” said Toadfish Rebecchi.

“They did,” insisted William Shakespeare.

“They didn’t,” repeated Toadie, leaning against the hotel reception desk. “You misread your audience. Those guys in that lift would not have got that reference.”

“It was a fucking Terminator joke,” screamed Shakespeare. “Everyone’s seen Terminator.”

Toadie rolled his eyes, weighed up the situation and opted to continue the debate, knowing that the bard probably wouldn’t let it lie anyway. “They haven’t,” he said. “You think everyone’s seen The Terminator because all of your friends have seen The Terminator, but that’s just your mates. Those are the circles you move in.”

“Bullshit,” spat Shakespeare.

“I’m serious. Those guys in that lift? They were businessmen. They were lap dancing club type people.”

“So what?”

“Well lap dancing club type people aren’t Terminator type people.”

“That’s just bollocks,” said Shakespeare. “There’s overlap. Lap dancing people and Terminator people aren’t entirely separate. You can like both.”

“I think it’s pretty unlikely,” said Toadie, giving off a slightly smug air.

“Fuck you,” said Shakespeare and pushed him firmly. As Toadie was already leaning, he couldn’t get his legs in place to halt his momentum and he sprawled on the floor. Shakespeare giggled slightly.

Toadie picked himself and shouted “arsehole.” The embarrassment of falling had incensed him and the playwright’s reaction had compounded this. He aimed a punch at Shakespeare’s wispy beard.

Shakespeare tried to dodge it, but took a glancing blow on the jaw. As he turned back again, he thrust both hands into Toadie’s chest and started shoving him across the room backwards.

After a couple of metres, the backpedalling Toadie came up against the rear side of a sofa and the pair toppled over it. They fell down into a gap between the sofa itself and a coffee table positioned just in front of it where they started to pepper each other’s torsos with abbreviated punches delivered from close range.

“Pigfucker,” cried Toadie.

“Dick,” replied Shakespeare.

Toadie, on his back, tried to strangle the bard, but couldn’t get a good grip through the sheer linen collar. Shakespeare took advantage of this, getting a more full-blooded punch through the burly soap character’s defences and into his face.

Toadie cried out in pain and then immediately felt a forearm press down on his throat. Struggling for air, he looked up into the eyes of the man who was hurting him and was surprised to see that they were rapidly moistening.

Shakespeare panted and seemed to be fighting back an emotion that wasn’t aggression. His lip wobbled a bit. He eased the pressure on Toadie’s throat and after a couple of false starts, said: “I dreamt that you touched me in my private places.”

With that, he stood up and ran out of the hotel lobby.

About Us

A man who has no interest in writing about Toadfish Rebecchi, largely because his surname is annoying to spell.