Russian Fairy Tales

In the old days when bongo mags and flicking the V’s were merely words which didn’t mean anything, the native Russians would entertain themselves with parables about woodland creatures and foolish people.  In this spirit of this book:

I present a series of Russian fairy tales for the discerning reader (that’s you, in case you were wondering)

Ivan was a cunning farmer who went out to sea on his boat.  There he met a wily octopus.  “My, Mr. Octopus,” said Ivan, “you are so handsome and virile.”  The octopus, flattered, swam closer, but not close enough to be in Ivan’s net.  “Oh, Mr. Octopus,” said Ivan once more, “you are so clever and wise.”  Yet again the octopus crawled closer, but not close enough to fall into the net.  “Oh, Mr Octopus,” said Ivan a third time.  “You are so cunning and strong.”  And this time the octopus crawled into the net.  But before Ivan could tie the octopus up a blue whale ate them both.

Moral:  Octopi are cunts.


Farmer Bollockovich was tending his cabbage patch one day when a big brown bear ran at him.  Farmer Bollockovich was a wily, cunning farmer and prone to soiling his underwear after too much vodka, and also kept a blunderbuss down his pants.  As the bear drew close Bollockovich whipped out his blunderbuss and tried to shoot, but lo, he had whipped out his knob by mistake, and the bear ate him.

Moral:  Octopi are still cunts.


One day a farmer’s daughter was on her way to the market with a kopec for which to buy some pigs trotters with when a wily fox stepped onto the path.  Luckily it got scared because foxes don’t like human contact and ran off.  It wasn’t an actual large fox which spoke, because that would be stupid.

Moral:  Don’t be a twat.


An old couple lived in a shack in the middle of a big symbolic forest.  They had plenty to eat and were very content, happy in their poor, frugal life.  One day a wily hawk came to visit and offered the old man a large pot of money, a fast donkey, and a much younger wife with huge norks.  The old man immediately ditched his wife and went out to join the hawk, which promptly ate him.

MORAL:  Old men are stupid.


The fish and the vulture went to sea, but then the vulture got hungry and tried to eat the haddock, but the haddock escaped into the sea and then the vulture had nothing, not even the haddock to tow him to shore, so he died like a twat for his greed.

Moral:  Haddock suck balls.


Basically a stick gets given life, turns human, realises the world is horrible, by which time it’s too late to turn back into a stick and so a bear eats him, with the moral being sometimes you’re better off sticking to what you know, which is a stupid moral, really, as it says ‘don’t bother to try and better yourself’.  The fucking Tories would love that one.  Wankers.

Moral:  Don’t watch Question Time before writing fairy tales.


Once there was a tiny man with a freakish head who could make trousers.  He was green and a cunt.  Then he died.

Moral:  Ballbags.


Ivan Roundtrousers was out fishing in the Veil of Tears last Tuesday when he heard a beautiful melodious song wafting over the waves. When he reached the Archipelago where the song was coming from he saw a beautiful young woman with the looks of an angel.  “Come home with me and we will live forever in bliss,” said the fisherman, and she did.  But that night, just as he was settling down to have a good old go on her grundies, the moonlight lit her face and she was revealed as an old hag.  She hid her visage, sobbing, “A witch has cursed me with the visage of a hag whenever the moon is high.  Can you ever love me this way.”  “Not bloody likely,” said the fisherman, and dumped her back on the Archipelago, and then settled down with someone who, although without the visage of an angel, at least didn’t bullshit him when it came to nocturnal related withcraftery.

Moral:  I’ve just shit my pants.


Once there was a tramp who would walk the streets of Barysau grumbling into a cask of spirits.  The small children would laugh at him and throw things and the tramp would walk on.  One day the tramp woke up in the forest to see a wily rat nearby.  “I hear you are a man of taste,” said the wily rat, and the tramp urged it closer, saying, “tell me more.”  “I hear you are a man of wisdom, having travelled many roads through life, from cooper to Prince,” said the wily rat, and the tramp once again urged it hither, saying, “speak on, wise rat.”  “I hear you have very tasty clackers,” said the wily rat, and then ate his bollocks.

Moral:  Don’t let rats near your bollocks.


One day a farmer with a massive knob went into a shack.  “Look at my knob” he exclaimed, thrusting it’s massive shiny end in the face of the neighbour’s wife.  “My, that is massive,” the farmer’s wife exclaimed, and began to stroke it.  And then she waxed it.  And then she attached it to the door.  It was actually a door knob, and not the man’s penis.

Moral:  All fish are called Trevor.


Some Christmas Stories by Lots of People

Fifty Shades of Christmas Tat by E L James

Jemima Spankington was tucked up in her leather sheets when she heard a noise from the chimney.  Someone’s trying to squeeze themselves down my tight hole, she thought to herself sexily.  I’d better climb out of this bed in a top sexy manner and shimmy over really raunchily and see what’s going on.

When Jemima finally got to the chimney she found a hot, sexy, unshaven and rakish gentleman standing by the fireplace with a cricket bat in one hand and some handcuffs in the other.

“I’m Father SEXmass,” said the rogue, “and you’ve been a very naughty girl!”

“You’d better punish me, oh master,” she said in a way that’s raunchily sexist but bloody well feminist as well, if some of these modern reviewers are to be believed, and she prostrated herself in front of him in a really pervy way where you could see EVERYTHING!

“Prepare to be ruddy well punished,” he dominatingly said, and then fucked off and went to play cricket with his chums from Eton.

A Christmas Tramp Who Gets His Bollocks Chewed Off by Rats by James Hebert

Jack Scrooge had spent his life living a lie.  He used to be a top businessman in some high class real estate firm back in the eighties, but as the years wore on then so did his habit of going down to the roundabout in the middle of town and flicking the V’s at the cars.  One day his boss caught him flicking the Vs and sacked him, as he thought he was being a twat.  With no job and no money the flicking of the Vs habit came to dominate his life, and it wasn’t long before his wife kicked him out and he was left, destitute, on his own, flicking the Vs at everything that passed him by, from bicycles to snails.

In the end Jack Scrooge ended up joining a group of down and outs who would regularly meet up to drink meths and flick the Vs at stationary objects before passing out.  It was one of these nights when he was awoken to the sound of his bollocks being chewed off by rats.  He barely had time to scream before he realised all the bollocks of all the people around him – male and female – were all being chewed off by rats.  All he could manage was one more feeble flick of the V’s, and then he was dead – de-bollocked.

His brother, Ebeneezer, had a different story, but that did not involve testicle mutilation so knobs to that.

Harry Knobber’s Wizardy Fucking Christmas by JK Bowling Ball

“Oh, what a wizardy fucking time we’re having,” said Harry Knobber as he fucked around with a stick like a right twat.  “Let’s hope no Grumbleflicks or Flibbleshits or whatever cunts are supposed to be the bad guys in this pile of old donkey’s helmets turns up and messes with our shit today.”

“Well said, Harry,” said Hermaphrodite Grainger, scratching her balls.  “Now let’s spanner about for fucking ages playing the great game of Quimmage.”

“What’s that?” asked Ronald Reagenly, wafting his magic purple stick about which made all the old Eton boys go all hot under the collar for some reason.

“It’s a game where you see how much of a cunt you can be!” twittered Hermaphrodite merrily, and kicked him right in the nuts.  “Take that, you bellend!”

“Hark,” said Harry, jabbing his wilting stick into the heavens.  “Lo, and forsooth, what is that!”

In the sky a big fat bloke with a beard and a present was swooping about muttering to himself and swigging from a bottle of meths.

“Aaaiiieee!” squealed Hermaphrodite.  “It is one of them dark wraith thingies which turn up and fuck with my shit!”

Harry thrust his wizard stick forward into the sky, chanting, “Expellitwattus shittius o-bollocks nerdyvirginus Howardy Russell-is-a-fucking-bellendus-cockus-dicksplashus!”

But luckily Santa, for it was him, was a right fucking hard core bare knuckle boxing champion and beat the living tar out of the little bastards.  And then ate them.  And then shat on the remains.  And everyone who’s not twelve was happy and started reading grown up books about rats eating the bollocks of tramps and suchlike.

The Crabs of Christmas by Guy N Smith

Susan and Rick were walking along the lovely peaceful and quiet beach of Dorset.

“Isn’t it all so lovely and quiet,” said Susan.  “In fact, I don’t believe anything could possibly disrupt the loveliness of this place.”

Clickety-clack.  Just then a giant crab popped up and ate them, scooping their entrails into it’s maw like spaghetti, like they do in every fucking book.  Except this time the crab had a bit of tinsel on it.

Grrrrr by Norman Mailer

Christmas always reminded Mailer of the time he punched out his own ineluctable reflection as it dared to sneer at him.  The hospital had patched him and called him a twat, and so Mailer punched out the building and then went home and got manfully drunk before punching Santa and all his elves out in his dreams.

The Little Matchstick Girl by Lee Childs

The little matchstick girl was forced onto the streets.  She could not return home unless she had sold all her matches for her father would beat her.  But she knew damn well who was behind it.  Enormocorp.

She tooled up with some major weapons and then snuck into Enormocorp, finally cornering the head bad guy who tried to trick her before she twisted off his head and booted it through the window.

Just then she saw a shooting star and remembered that her grandmother, John Rambo, had told her that everytime she saw a falling star it meant someone was going to heaven.  Except in this case it was the rocket she’d just fired into Enormocorps ammunition dump.

She returned to her spot, the flames of Enormocorp keeping her warm, and when she returned home after selling no matches and her father tried to beat her, she kicked the shit out of him and then twisted off his head.

Jobbies – an In-depth Analysis of Modern Politics by Professor Crikey O’Blimey, MSc, BF’in, MPhil, PhBollocks, MsGobshite

People often say to me, “Professor, take your hand out of my trousers.”  But they also say to, “Lumme O’knobs, Professor, this country is in a right old rum state, me old china mate, apples and stairs, dog and phone – can you give me roughly a thousand words on this subject to help fill out this week’s blog – not that I’m being lazy or anything, me old scrotey ballbag, and quite honestly I couldn’t give a shit but the proles seem to expect it.  Now take your hand out of my trousers.”  And I say to these people, “Mr Cameron, that’s a very good question.”
Let’s take a look at some common misconceptions of today’s politics:

  • All politicians are in it for their own good
  • All politicians care not for the common man
  • All politicians make laws to line their own pockets
  • All politicians can’t be trusted
  • All politicians would wee on the corpse of their own grandmother for a shot at power
  • All politicians are twisted sexual deviants
  • All politicians are lying shitbags
  • All politicians are fucking witless bellend tossbuckets and should be destroyed in a great purge to rid the world of lying and bullshit

All these statements are seen as inalienable fact, and yet are they?  Let’s try a little exercise and turn the list on its head to see if the opposite has more truth.

  • All politicians are altruistic charity workers who would rather give a poor, shivering unemployed immigrant disabled pensioner all their money than rifle through their pockets before kicking them to the gutter
  • All politicians stand up for equal rights, understanding that we are all in it for the common good, and that hatred, bigotry, xenophobia and the class system must all be faced to bring about an equal society where we can all prosper
  • All politicians understand that laws are there to aid society, and do not use them as an excuse to fuck over the rights of protest groups or unions which could possibly act as a barrier to them passing dodgy laws about fracking or the right to sack people for having an odd nose or anything to help their rich chums get their own way
  • All politicians speak the truth, and like nothing more than a good honest debate where all arguments are taken into consideration and a judgement decided upon based on the facts, and not whatever spurious old under-researched bollocks they tend to felch out every time that cunt Dimbleby pops his confused old head above the parapet in Question Time.
  • All politicians would definitely not wee on their corpse of their own grandmother, even if their sexual peccadillos were inclined that way.
  • All politicians are not sexual deviants and would perish the thought of being strung up by their testicles, having a Satsuma shoved in their gobs, being spanked with a small porcupine, having a pineapple shoved up their rectums whilst Hungarian trap dancing leather fetishists do great big jobbies on their heads and then finally reaching climax by imagining all the people who will die because of their austerity cuts.
  • All politicians tell the truth because the truth is what matters, and the idea of blatantly telling big old fibs about everything from the reason we went to war to why the economy is in such a state would never cross their mind as they are so honest and upright and cool and street and can do wheelies on their Grifters and all that malarkey
  • All politicians should be cherished as they bring much needed organisation and governance to whatever country they operate in, and despite the fact that they keep getting done for fraud and tax evasion and keep being found dead in bed with molested farmyard animals and keep sending people to wars they would cak their skidmarked pants over going anywhere near and keep diverting attention from the real problems by blaming the poor and the disabled and immigrants of all standings and Europe and such like and keep saying that the rise in food banks and dead paupers has nothing to do with their draconian austerity drive that fucks over the poor whilst lining the pockets of the rich and being morally and socially and politically and historically corrupt from the ground up and basically being a really fucking nasty bunch of massive bellend monkey fucking shitbags and we should thank our lucky stars that we have such good, kind, well-meaning altruistic people to guide us through the rocky tides of life.

Now which set of these eight statements seem more plausible?

What this exercise teaches us is that there’s nothing more annoying than some bloody lefty tree hugging hippie trying to push his ruddy democratic agenda across on a public forum, and they should probably go home to Lefty-Land and leave nice millionaires like Mr Cameron and Mr Clegg and Mr Osborne alone because it’s a ruddy hard job they do – taking a massive shit on the poor – and they should be left alone to poo on who they want without having to answer questions about why they’re fucking everyone over.

And don’t call them all cunts, either, because they’re not.

They’re actually fucking cunts.

Thank you

Note:  Professor Crikey O’Blimey has since renounced all his anti-political ways and become a UKIP member, where he has started a campaign to kick all sprouts out of the country as they make his bottom go funny.


A sneak at the new sequel to Silence of the Lambs – The Farting of the Bottoms

Hannibal Lecter: You still wake up sometimes, don’t you? You wake up in the dark and hear the farting of the bottoms.

Clarice Starling: Yes.

Hannibal Lecter: And you think if you save poor Catherine, you could make them stop, don’t you? You think if Catherine lives, you won’t wake up in the dark ever again to that awful farting of the bottoms.

Clarice Starling: I don’t know. I don’t know.

Hannibal Lecter: Thank you, Clarice. Thank you.

Clarice Starling: Tell me his name, Doctor.

Hannibal Lecter: Brave Clarice. You will let me know when those bottoms stop farting, won’t you?

Clarice Starling: Yes.

Hannibal Lecter:  You were orphaned. You were ten years old. You went to live with cousins on a sheep and horse ranch in Montana. And…?

Clarice Starling: [tears begin forming in her eyes] And one morning, I just ran away.

Hannibal Lecter: No “just”, Clarice. What set you off? You started at what time?

Clarice Starling: Early, still dark.

Hannibal Lecter: Then something woke you, didn’t it? Was it a dream? What was it?

Clarice Starling: I heard a strange noise.

Hannibal Lecter: What was it?

Clarice Starling: It was… farting. Some kind of farting, like a big bottom.

Hannibal Lecter: What did you do?

Clarice Starling: I went downstairs, outside. I crept up into the barn. I was so scared to look inside, but I had to.

Hannibal Lecter: And what did you see, Clarice? What did you see?

Clarice Starling: Bottoms. The bottoms were farting.

Hannibal Lecter: They were feeding sprouts to the spring bottoms?

Clarice Starling: And they were farting.

Christmas Shopping Tips by Breakdown O’Aneurysm

Shopping at Christmas can be a stressful time, from the problems of negotiating crowded supermarkets and high streets to making sure you get the right bargain for granny.  It is a statistical fact that many relationships end because of the stresses and strains of that all important shopping trip for the Christmas goodies, but many of these problems can be avoided by following a few simple rules.  With this in mind, Sortitaht presents you, the consumer, with a few important tips and hints to avoid the Christmas blues:

  • Remember to write out a shopping list before hand
  • Make sure you stick to the list and don’t overburden yourself with bargains
  • When tempers fray, take time out to sit down and share a warm drink to calm tempers down
  • Do not rush, as this may cause you to kill people
  • Always remember to JESUS FUCKING CHRIST WHAT AM I DOING!!!  I used to be a professional journalist.  I went to a university and everything.  I wanted to be the next Woodword or Bernstein.  I wanted to bring the truth to the world and expose government corruption, and here I am knocking out fucking tips on how not to stab yourself in the fucking eyeballs everytime some cunt in a Santa suit tries to flog some fucking glow stick at you.  Every bloody year it’s the same old bollocks churned out week after fucking week – and those arseholes in the paper see it as a quick and easy way to fill space.  “Oh, shall we run something in-depth and interesting about something that fucking matters in the world, or shall we just churn out the same old bollocks and fill the pages of the Sundays with endless ‘what to buy for the family’ style Christmas lists which takes up loads of fucking space which should be filled with actual news rather than this bollocks.”  Well, actually doing any proper fucking journalism is obviously too difficult for these cunts, so let’s flog the usual bollocks and then stare at ourselves in the mirror and weep uncontrollably until we die!  I mean, fuck me, last week The Observer had a front page report about how much of a massive cunt Amazon is, only to have their ‘what to buy for the bastards you hate in your family’ article listing Amazon as the main place to buy your fucking books.  The witless cock-smoking shitface ballbags, and that’s ruddy swearing!

There is real news out there, but I’m fucked if you can find it in the papers.  Bloody hell – the government are trying to turn this country into a fiefdom, demonise the working classes, introduce xenophobic bigotry as mainstream politics and fuck the public services and civil servants right up the marmite, but all the fucking papers can cuntingly well do like the witless fuckfaced bastard shitbag bollockknobbed twatmonkey arsebuiscuit jismbummed wankflanged dicktwatting scumbag fucks they are is keep churning out this facile witlessness for empty headed dingbats and witless fuckheads who visages resemble the sort of sex offenders who get genitally aroused by pictures of farmyard machinery in lingerie!  Well, fuck them!  Here’s the true ‘fucking bastards shopping bastard tips for bastard fucking bastard christmas’ which you REALLY need to know

  • Always kill anyone in your path as they are all bastards
  • Remember to punch small children in the head as they’re annoying little snotty faced shits who exist only to make your life a living hell
  • If the wife leaves you due to arguments about what to buy immediately become an alcoholic as it’s a lot more fun than listening to your friends bang on about there being plenty more fish in the sea
  • Everyone who dresses as Santa is a terrorist
  • Christmas was originally a pagan festival and therefore anyone dressed as an elf in a department store should be burnt in a wicker man to appease the gods and make the harvests grow
  • Anyone caught making google eyes at a burbling infant in a pram is to be punched in the genitals until they realise these screaming bags of shit will one day grow up to be adults and fuck with their life
  • Anyone who goes ‘bah, humbug’ and acts miserable is to be given a knighthood.
  • It takes more energy to frown than to smile, but anyone saying this is a cunt
  • Always park your car across three parking spaces, with extra bonus points for doing it in the disabled bays
  • To save tempers during Christmas shopping trips, never buy anything and spend all your money in the pub
  • Always remember to take a high powered rifle with a scope and AGH!!  NO!!! MY HEART!!!! (dies)

Hello boys and girls.  This is the true spirit of Christmas here, advising you to ignore that miserable old  git and spend all your money on pointless fripperies.  Remember, you can only show how much you truly love someone by the amount of cold, hard cash you spend on them.  True story: last year Mr Miser O’Skinflint refused to buy his kindly grey haired frail old mother a Christmas present as he claimed he had no money, so she shot him.

Remember the true spirit of Christmas, which is buy, buy buy.


Definitely Not George Osbourne