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“Look at it,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor. “It’s quite breathtaking.”

“My breath’s been taken away by the fucking cold,” said William Shakespeare.

“An ice hotel,” said Ellis-Bextor. “An ice palace, if you will. Quite breathtaking. I’m so glad we came to Jukkasjarvi.”

“Stop saying that,” ordered Shakespeare.

“What, Jukkasjarvi?”

“Yes.”

“What’s wrong with saying Jukkasjarvi?” said Ellis-Bextor, slightly put out. “That’s where we are. We’re in Jukkasjarvi. It’s only natural that we’d find ourselves saying Jukkasjarvi from time to time.”

“Oh, you’re just putting it on now,” said the ill-tempered bard. “I’ve not found it necessary to say that word once.”

“That’s because you can’t say it,” said Ellis-Bextor teasingly. “You’d never have managed to get here on your own.”

“Oh fuck you,” said Shakespeare. “Maybe if I hadn’t got here, I wouldn’t be so fucking cold anyway.”

“I told you to put on more clothes.”

“What?” The bard was genuinely confused. “I’ve got a sheer linen collar to keep the wind off my neck. I’m wearing my warmest jerkin. I’ve even got a doublet on. What more do you want?”

“How about an actual pair of trousers.”

“These hose are padded, you know,” shrieked Shakespeare. “That provides insulation. And I’m wearing thick stockings.”

“You never wear appropriate clothes,” said Ellis-Bextor with a degree of weariness.

“Appropriate for this weather, no. Nothing’s appropriate for this fucking weather. My scrotum’s taut, for fuck’s sake. Look at it.”

Shakespeare pulled the waist of his hose forward and tried to usher Ellis-Bextor in closer so she could look down at his genitals. The whey-faced popstrel took a step backwards.

“Look at it!” screamed Shakespeare, waddling towards her, one hand lowering his clothing at the front, the other reaching out for her.

Ellis-Bextor backed away. “No, I don’t want to see your taut scrotum. Pull up your breeches before you embarrass yourself.”

Shakespeare picked up speed, almost jogging towards her with his shrunken parts on full display and his lowered clothing hobbling his steps. “Look at it! Look how taut my fucking scrotum is.”

Ellis-Bextor came up against the wall of the hotel and Shakespeare closed in. He didn’t touch her, but got close enough that her escape was barred. Frustrated and unhappy, Ellis-Bextor started to cry.

“Look at my fucking bollocks,” he growled. “They may not be as big as Chris Rea’s, but that scrotum is much, much tighter. Look at it. Look at it!”

Sophie Ellis-Bextor looked at it.

 


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Posted by Alex On August - 16 - 2011

4 Responses to “Staying at the Ice Hotel in Jukkasjarvi in Sweden”

  1. Barnaby says:

    Poor Sophie Ellis-Bextor. No one deserves that.
    Except maybe Madonna.

  2. Bonobo the Clown says:

    I dunno. I mean, she did go to an ice hotel. In a way, doesn’t that imply that she wants to see William Shakespeare’s gonads?

  3. Ken from Accounts says:

    That’s totally illogical, Bonobo the Clown. I’ve always wanted to see Bard balls, but my last holiday was to Mallorca.

    If Sophie Ellis-Bextor had gone to Mallorca with Helen from HR last May, like me, that would definitely imply that she wanted to examine his sack.

  4. Kevin Miles says:

    I know how Shakespeare feels. I once went on holiday to Whitby and fuck me but I could not say that word. And there was Mrs. Miles laughing in my face giving it – go on say it again, try and say it again, say Whitby, it’s funny, why can’t you say it, it’s really easy, say it, say it. She wasn’t laughing when I pushed her off that fucking donkey, ran back to the guest house and shat on her side of the bed. Ms ‘it’s really funny’ didn’t laugh at that much at all. The stuck up bitch.

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