Bastard Christmas!


Santa will eat your face


Sortitaht will be foraging for presents in a damp cave for Christmas, but will return on a more regular basis (due to Mr. Sortitaht being a lazy scrote for the last few months) in the New Year, with MORE contributions to the Shit Film Club, MORE rants about Donald Trump being a tiny handed twat, MORE V’s flicked at the tabloids, and MORE uses of the words ‘scrotey old ballbags’.





Brexit County Logo

The Siege of Charity Hall, as it become known in the village due to not very much going on, lasted a total of two minutes. By the time Jackson Lancaster and Joseph Lenin had rustled up enough coffin dodgers from the local pub into a shambolic mess to march on Beard and his Brexit-voting team, the hall had emptied out. All that remained was a sorry-looking plate of hobnobs and some half empty cups of lukewarm tea.

“Our first victory!” shouted Lenin, raising a triumphant fist. “Afeared as they are of the unstoppable forces of revolutionary fervour, the massed ranks of the stinking bourgeoisie have fled to their dungeons to plot the next scurrilous phase of their plan!”

“Nay, lad,” said Jackson, calmly urging his arm down. “If I know that fat bastid ‘ee’s buggered off t’pub where we came from.” Jackson spun on his heels and yelled to the crowd behind him, “OFF TO THE JUICER!”

With a lot of griping and grumbling the geriatric crowd shuffled around, and with a heroic amount of wheezing and choking, hauled themselves back to the warm pub they had recently vacated.


Cressida Lump was already engineering her own fightback against the forces of disunity.

“You lying bastard!” she yelled into the face of Wardon Grimly as she tried to force a sink plunger down his throat. “What on the face of God’s green earth gives you the right to print this SLANDER about me!” She smacked Wardon over his balding head with a copy of the Charity Gazette for emphasis.

“Freedom of speech!” gargled Wardon as he kept a firm grip on the handle of the plunger to stop it sucking his guts out. Cressida was short but she had arms like small tenements, and Wardon could well believe she had the strength to plunge his stomach lining out of his throat.

“Freedom of speech, my arse!” yelled Cressida. “For a start, I’m 43 – NOT 44 – like you LIED in your article! And I do not. Fucking. Swear!” She gave the plunger an extra hard yank before Wardon finally managed to break free and scuttle backwards away from her, finally coming up against a wall and picking up his only means a defence, a moulded inkwell and pen his old boss at The Mail gave him on the day of his retirement. He brandished it at Cressida limply.

“The bulk of the article was true,” he managed, trying to regain some dignity.

“Was it, balls!” yelled Cressida. “You asked me what I thought of Mayor Beard and I offered no comment! Yes, there may have been a few choice words passed between us, but that’s all. Not this… this…” Words failed her as she shook the Gazette at him, and then tore it in two.

Wardon watched the two halves drop to the floor and felt glad it wasn’t his neck.

Cressida brandished a finger at him. “Any more bullshit from you, Grimly, and this foot goes straight up your arse!” For emphasis, she jabbed a finger at her foot, and then spun imperiously around and stormed out with as much dignity as her fuming, middle aged anger would allow her. The front door slammed shut with an ear-splitting crash.

Grimly observed the torn apart newspaper he sweated over day and night (although mostly between the hours of 9 and 12 until the pub opened) and vowed to himself that a) if Cressida wanted a war of words then she would get one, and b) to get a stronger lock on his front door.


Lancaster and Lenin finally found their quarry propping up the bar at the Hound and Squire.

“You BASTARD!” yelled Lenin for want of a better introduction, jabbing a quivering finger at Mayor Beard as he hob-nobbed with the other members of the council. “It’s because of the likes of you we live in a land of austerity!”

“Oh, give over,” muttered Councillor Hartley-Smith as he appreciated a nice brandy in the gloom of the overhead lights. “If you want to know about austerity try pricing the cost of pheasant beaters.”

“You’re not adverse to a pretty penny yourself, young man,” twittered Marjory from beside him in what she hoped was a chiding but coquettish manner. She liked them young, and her sex dungeon hadn’t seen the light of day in donkey’s years.

“Listen to reason,” said Lancaster, edging into the bar and tipping the wink to Cooper behind the bar who was already laying the first of many ales down for what, if he stretched the debate out long enough, could be a very long and enjoyable night. “Now, I ‘as my trinket sellin’ business, for which The Foreigns provide me with much coin. An’ if we take that coin away, then I’ll have no trinkets to sell to them, and if I ain’t got no trinkets to sell to them, then I goes broke. It’s commerce, see?”

“COMMERCE!” boomed Beard, causing enough of a distraction for Lancaster to nip to the bar and down half his pint before the last syllable his finished echoing through the rafters. “COMMERCE is for traders, you snipe! You, sir, are a conman!”

“Aye, yes, that I can’t deny, but a conman who needs to eat,” nodded Lancaster, sweeping the rest of his ale down in one gulp as Cooper set him up with another.

“This isn’t about money!” said Lenin as he strode in and planted himself squarely in the middle of the room, hands on hips and feet spread heroically apart. He tilted his chin in a roguish manner and Marjory almost had a heart attack. “This is about the will of the people! This is about right and wrong! This is about putting an end to your INSANE plans to wall Charity off for your own benefit! This is about JUSTICE!”

“Very good, young man,” said Hartley-Smith, giving him a gentle round of applause. A few of the old sots in the darkest corners joined in.

“It’s also about sovereignty, you little anarchist,” said Beard. “If we let those sods in Brussels dictate how we run our council then we might get overrun. And if we get overrun, we run out of resources, and if we run out of resources we all end up living in penury, and I’m not selling my bloody stake in the village for Johnny Foreigner! No sir!”

“So, it’s outright racism, is it?” asked Lenin.

Beard narrowed him with a gimlet stare, chewed a bit of leftover veal caught in his teeth, and then cracked a smile which glittered faintly on his snake-like eyes.

“Joseph,” he laughed, setting his pint down and sweeping his arms wide to welcome him. Joseph stayed put. “It’s not what you think. The barrier is merely symbolic. It’s what you would call, a gesture.”

Just then the pub door opened and Yanis Kuchma appeared on the threshold.

“Beard!” he chimed. “Bloody good to see you, old mate! When do you want the wall built? Might take a while as it’s only me. I can probably get Harry the Tramp to help out, but he’s useless after his third turps.”

“Yanis, my old friend!” boomed Beard, sweeping past Joseph and scooping the small man up in his arms, only to swiftly negotiate him up to the bar and slide a sloshing shot of whisky into his already open hand. “As soon as you can, my old chum. Remember, the second those bricks start going up the second your pockets are full.”

“OI!” yelled Lenin.

“Bastard!” yelled Lancaster.

“Don’t mind them,” muttered Beard to Yanis. “They’re just jealous they didn’t get the contract.” He beamed a self-satisfied grin at the two.

Lenin was back to waggling a strident finger at Beard’s face. “You’ll regret this, you pumped up small town nobody!”

“It’s a village, actually,” said Beard.

“WHATEVER!” screamed Lenin, and then stormed out into the night.

“Teenagers, eh?” said Beard, despite the obvious fact that Joseph was in his mid-twenties. He turned back to Yanis. “Now, what sort of price are we talking…”


Joseph Lenin had never been so pissed off in his life. Well, maybe that one time when mummy wouldn’t let him purchase a Bugatti for his 18th birthday, but generally he was angrier than he’d ever been without his parents being part of the problem. Couldn’t that stick-in-the-mud small minded bigot see what was wrong with the whole concept of Brexit? You couldn’t wall off the village from the outside world. That was insane. The place needed those visitors to bring a bit of diversity to the place. And they weren’t exactly short of jobs. Farmer Diamond was gagging for help come the grape picking season, and if Beard cut off access to the outside populace, whatever commerce the village indulged in would be sent up the Suwannee. He needed to get an army together. He needed to fight back, by fair means or foul, if necessary, although foul would be preferable. He had a brace of heavy duty bangers from France he was gagging to use up.

“Oh, Joseph…” The voice was frail, and slightly out of breath, and came from the cemetery. For a second Joseph was convinced it was mummy come back from the dead to castigate him about his wanking habits, but Marjory emerged from the shadows with a sickly grin on her face. She battered her eyelashes at him.

“If you’re not part of the solution you’re part of the problem,” grumbled Joseph.

“Oh, I‘m very MUCH part of the solution,” smiled Marjory. “You see, despite this somewhat… dowdy but alluring exterior I have, deep within me, the pounding heart of a revolutionary. All I need is someone to help me… pluck it out.”

“Oh, yes?”

“By spanking.”

“Excuse me?”

“I am here to offer you a base of operations. Underground. I can be your snake in the grass, if you’d just… put your snake in my grass.” She was confusing herself now, trying to drag the dregs of seduction from the cobwebs in her mind.

Lenin hesitated. If he understood Marjory, she was offering herself as the inside woman. A double agent. And with the stacks of cash lining up in her bank balance Joseph was sure he could tap her for a few zlotys to help fund the revolution. But dare he do it? Dare he get into bed with the enemy?

Marjory, who was thinking of a different kind of bed entirely (for a start it wasn’t metaphorical, and this one had straps at each corner), waited patiently whilst the rusty cogs turned in Joseph Lenin’s mind.


Inside the Hound and Squire the debate was hotting up. Lancaster was on his fifth pint by now and Dutch courage was seeking to conquer civilities.

“If you close down’t borders we’ll be friggin’ DESTITUTE!” he wailed. “We ‘aven’t got much commerce in this ‘ere place, and you’ll friggin’ ROB US BLIND!”

“Now, now, my good man, it’s not a matter of money,” said Beard with an unctuous smile. “There is more to life than gleaning the odd shekel. This is about our independence, and if the government are too lily-livered to take control then, I’m afraid, it’s up to us.”

“But what about me?” wailed Lancaster, pausing only to knock back the second half of his pint seconds before Cooper slapped another one in front of him. “What ‘appens when’t trade dries up?”

“Trade will not dry up,” said Beard calmly. “Your pockets will not stay empty. We shall simply have a monitored border. And those who we deem fit to enter Charity will be allowed access – under strict guidelines, of course. Plenty of gullible tourists for your trade, my friend, but ones we know will be brimming with finance.”

“Bollocks.” The wind went out Lancaster. He knew the kind of people Beard entrusted with the safety of Charity’s borders. Big egos in a small village. A deadly combination. If Beard was intent on enacting his draconian measures, then Lancaster was damn bloody sure he would be the opposition. Lenin was a decent bloke, but he lacked the subterfuge required to overturn this pompous blowhard of a Mayor.

“Alright, then, Beard,” he conceded. “I guess you know what you’re doin’. If you need any ‘elp, you’ve got my number.”

“Good man,” said Beard. “Another ale?”

“Aye,” nodded Lancaster slowly, already scheming. “Another ale, indeed.”


Outside of the village, the local constable, Hardly Crawford, manned the barricade on the East side. There were four ways in, and all the roads were closed down and sectioned off. Yes, he was aware the recruits were blood thirsty weekend warriors with a political ideology to the right of that Trump fella, but he knew they loved taking orders and wouldn’t question his authority. He did, after all, have a uniform on.

“Constable Crawford!” That was Gimlet, a small and furious looking man with a forest for a beard and little stature to speak of. “We’ve got visitors!”

Crawford peered into the distance. Coming towards them was a small trail of vehicles. Black, shiny, and very, very official.

“Run back and get Beard,” he ordered Gimlet. “If I’m right, this could be trouble.”



Brexit County Logo

The results were in, and the village of Charity erupted in euphoria at the idea that the United Kingdom were finally able to cut the rope around their neck which the European Union had foisted upon them.

Well, at least 185 of the 385 people in Charity voted to Remain, but to Mayor Beard this was a mere triviality. The majority – slight though it may have been – had voted Brexit, and Brexit it should be.

But the government couldn’t be trusted, and they backpedalled. Theresa May went from the iron lady to the spineless gimp quicker than Beard could organise the Brexit celebrations, and what was worse, even Corbyn looked as though he was edging the Tories out with the popular vote.

A hung parliament led to the threat of slow, drawn out negotiations. Europe weren’t backing down – they had no need too – and Mayor Beard had finally decided it was time to take a stand.

“We need to close the borders!” he bellowed at the town hall meeting, thumping the table unnecessarily. “Out means out, no means no, and that’s the way it’s going to be.”

“All very interesting but we’re hardly an autonomous society,” said Hartley-Smith. Hartley-Smith owned the largest estate in the village, packed a brace of shotguns (all legal) and believed that England went down the hatch as soon as serfdom was repealed. “We can’t close up the borders and stick our fingers in our ears, man!”

“And why not.” Beard banged the table, waking up Marjory who ran the Charity Women’s Institute. She was eighty-four and prone to a snooze. “We have money. We have an industry.”

“I don’t think making jam and teas cosies is an industry, Mister Beard,” said Marjory. “We’re hardly likely to fight the deficit on those ground.”

“Charity holds some of the richest people in the United Kingdom!” thundered Beard. “Collectively we have enough money to keep our heads above water for decades! I say, ‘May has let us down’. I say, ‘let’s grab the bull by the horns and show the country just what Brexit is all about’. Fine – if the Conservative party wish to slave under the iron boot of Brussels then let them! But this Beard is not for turning! Who’s with me?!”

Marjory was asleep again, and Hartley-Smith would vote for anything as long as he could splatter a few foxes over the countryside, so with a two thirds majority the council of Charity passed the motion – they would become independent and pull out of the EU.


A press release was put together by Wardon Grimly. An ex-Daily Mail writer, he was bumped to the Charity Gazette after he got drunk and kidnapped the editor’s Bugatti, driving it into a bus load of nuns and ending up as a front-page spectacle. He only made matters worse by slapping his manhood onto the dock and offering the judge to ‘consider his previous, i.e. – the amount of blart who’d had a good chow on THIS chodpiece’ before laughing hysterically and passing out in his own vomit. He would have been canned for a good, but there were rumours Grimly held compromising photographs of senior society figures in all manner of sexually deviant liaisons – including farmyard machinery – and he was lumped with a hefty payoff, a slap on the wrist, and the editorship of The Charity Gazette as a sop to keep him out of the way.

‘IT’S TIME FOR A CHANGE!’ roared the headline.

‘For too long the barmy Brussels bureaucrats have held this country to ransom. With May running scared and the loony Lefties in the Tory party unwilling to pull up the drawbridge, it’s up to Charity Mayor, Douglas Beard, to strike a blow for Britain.

‘”We can’t let the will of the people be crushed,” says Beard. “It’s time to reclaim our sovereignty back!”

Local bonkers Labourite, Cressida Lump, had other ideas. “He’s f*****g mad!” she screamed into this reporter’s face, wearing a T-shirt calling for sharia law. “He’s f*****g well b****d, c*****g insane, the d***less w**k biscuit!” Cressida, 44, is unmarried, and known to be a woman.’

In a radical plan to shore up the independence of Charity, Mayor Beard has elected to:


We believe, at the Gazette, that this will build a stronger, brighter future for all the residents of Charity, and fully back Mayor Beard on his crusade’.


Mayor Beard acted quickly with the local constable, Hardly Crawford, to set up check points on all roads leading into the village. There were four of them, and Hardly knew a couple of law-and-order ne’er do wells with solid Brexit values. Yes, they had, on occasion, be known to strut around the village in brown shirts and been overheard extolling the virtues of National Socialism, but they had their own firearms and an in-built detector for anyone of a foreign-sounding bent, and so could be trusted to make sure ‘the wrong type’ didn’t gain access to Charity.

Within the first few hours they’d stopped a group of visiting French war veterans and a coach-load of Spanish toddlers. There had been the threat of the toddlers overwhelming the border force, but a couple of barrels of buckshot in the side of the coach and the popping of a few balloons soon convinced the Spaniards to holiday somewhere else, although one of the brave border boys did suffer a hefty punch in the testicles from one particularly handy four-year-old.

Which left the problem with the wall. They could build it – how hard could a wall be? But how high should it be, and who should they get to build it?

The solution presented itself when Yanis Kuchma, a resident of Greek and Ukrainian heritage, complained to the village council about the lurch to the right by Beard.

“We could get Yanis to build it,” said Hartley-Smith. “He’s a foreign type, AND he’s unemployed.”

“He’s retired,” said Marjory.

“Well, that’s unemployed, isn’t it!” said Hartley-Smith.

“But you’re unemployed too,” said Marjory.

“Yes, but I’m British!”

“We’re English, here,” muttered Beard. “I don’t mind the Scots and the Welsh and the Irish, as long as they understand that they’ll have to follow whatever rules and regulations we impose on them. That, after all, is democracy.”


The words echoed around the village hall as Joseph Lenin stood at the entrance. That wasn’t his real name, which was Joseph Wotherington Starkly Gimble The Third, but Joseph had been educated in the rights and wrongs of society by a lovely young woman with enormous talents at Eton and had decided, upon graduation, that he would change his name to the father of communism and fight for the working man. Finding a working man he could stand to spend more than ten minutes with was another thing entirely, but his heart was in the right place, even if his wallet wasn’t when it was time to get a round in.

“Please, Joseph, let’s drop the cockney accent,” sighed Beard.

“Not a chance, cor blimey!” hollered Joseph. “We as wot lives in this village here REFUTE your claim to cut us off from the EU. And the rest of the UK, come to think of it. You may outnumber us, BEARD, but only by a small majority, apples and stairs.”

“This is a private meeting and you are not invited!” yelled Hartley-Smith. “We have important matters of state to discuss, and you are merely smelly. Now get lost, before I set the dogs on you!”

The dogs, a small brace of chihuahuas, yapped around his feet, eager for a nip at Joseph’s ankles.

“Aye oop, you’ll nay take ower liberty, ya prize wazzock,” warned Joseph, shaking a warning finger at them. “By my right as a working man of the t’field, me and ma kin will see you defeated, by eck!”

“Is that Northern?” asked Hartley-Smith to Beard. Beard shrugged.

“LIBERTY OR DEATH!” yelled Joseph, and then stormed out, closing the door gently behind him. He was angry, but he still had manners.


The news started to trickle through the Charity grapevine when the Gazette hit the door mats the next day. Considering just under half of the town – those that voted – had opted to remain in the EU, the consternation was quite subdued.

Charity was a village unused to protest. The nearest it got as a collective was when a supermarket had threatened to open an Megastore a few miles away, until one of the local historians (which numbered in the hundreds in a town like Charity) pointed out that King Arthur had once taken a dump in the area the supermarket was proposing to build on, and the rest of the Knights of the Round Table had probably carried out their ablutions in the surrounding fields, so basically the whole area should be sectioned off as a historical site of interest. This was ably helped by the erection of phalanx of signs saying, ‘King Arthur Shit Here’ and ‘Lancelot Dropped a His Caks In This Field’, and the supermarket soon lost interest and moved their plans for world domination to a poorer area of the country.

Although the news was slow to travel, the response was even slower. The majority of the population of Charity were pushing retirement age and, although a libertarian value was mainly predominant in the village, the Conservative numbers just nudged the odds in Beard’s favour. Besides, there was a canasta tournament going on, and the Charity charity ball to organise, which this year, rather embarrassingly, was in aid of refugees. There had been some in-fighting in the Charity charity commission about which part of the world they should be raising money for, as there were a number of frightful hot spots scattered all over the globe and a lot of the refugees had some appalling conditions to put up with, so after a lot of indecision from the Charity charity commission they had decided to put it to a vote later on. Now the point seemed mute.

Of course, no one really took Beard’s proposals seriously until the news hit the pub.

“That bloody Beard’s getting too hairy for his own good,” said Jackson Lancaster, who had a thing about facial hair. Jackson had lived in Charity since he was a nipper, and could claim the title as the second oldest resident (Marjory claimed the first). Unlike Marjory, Jackson had toiled in the fields as a child, and then claimed his own fortune through various shady antiques deals once he discovered he could flog any old tat as a genuine 18th century Georgian foot scraper, as long as he tried not to laugh. “We don’t want to close the borders. I sell ‘alf of my shite to the foreigns!”

“Aye,” nodded Cooper, the barman. “You mean ‘gullible foreigns’?”

“The point is, ‘ee can’t close the borders when. One, we ain’t got no borders, and two, ‘ee’s a twat.”

“He’s the mayor, Jackie boy,” said Cooper. “He can do what he bloody well likes, can’t he? We elected the sorry bastard into office, and now we have to pay for it.”

“Well, I bloody dun’t,” said Jackson, slamming his ale on the table. He turned to face the pub, which was crowded for a Friday afternoon. There were a lot of wrinkly faces hidden in the shadows; a lot of the old timers had come out. They were mainly a sorry looking lot – borderline alcoholics and retirees coasting on a hefty pension or a trust fund – but they could be relied on to get indiscriminately angry if the polemic was fiery enough. “I says I didn’t vote for that baastard to close them foreigns out! I says, we’re a progressive village! We won’t have Beard and his brown-shirted shits tellin’ us wot we can bluddy well do, will we!?”

There were a fair few rumblings, punctuated by the odd bout of flatulence. Jackson could tell they were riled up.

“Let’s go and storm that bluddy village ‘all and show that Beardy twat who’s in bluddy charge!”

A few burps this time. He was definitely getting to them.

The door to the pub burst open, and Joseph Lenin stood in front of them, framed by a corona of sunlight, the rays dancing off the edge of his specs.

“I hear you, old man,” said Joseph with and upward tilt of his chin. “Let me get on the dog and phone, by eck, and we’ll have a revolution here that will shake the world to it’s very foundations!”

Jackson nodded. Smiled. Sipped his pint.

“Let me ‘ave a wazz first and we’ll get started!”


Detective Punchfist and the Case of the Heavy-handed Symbolism

Artists rendering

Detective Punchfist lounged back in his chair with his feet on the desk when the door burst open and in walked a dame clutching a tree.

“Please help me,” she sobbed, setting the tree down carefully and feeding it some sunlight. “I’ve come from the Land of Clunking Analogies are we’re in grave danger.”

“Danger’s my middle name,” said Punchfist. “Actually, it’s Susan. Anyway, how can I help you.”

“A creature is running wild in the streets of Utopia,” sobbed the woman. “Everywhere it goes it leaves a trail of destruction, trampling over human rights and the feelings of minorities, woman and journalists.”

“I think I know just the solution,” said Punchfist.


Punchfist stood in the land of Utopia. What was once a lush and verdant green full of happy families with gumdrop smiles, was now reduced to a burning wasteland full of shattered dreams and broken promises.

In the distance Punchfist saw the problem. The Beast itself. Ten stories high, topped with a bright orange wig, rampaging through towers of human decency and civil rights, was the Trumposaurus Rex.

There was only one solution.

Punchfist ran towards the beast, whipping a mirror from the folds of his trench coat.

“Over here, Trump!” he bellowed.

The Trumposaurus Rex turned, caught a glimpse of its reflection, and stood mesmerised.

“Now for the coup d’etat,” quipped Punchfist, and then kicked the Trumposaurus in his leathery bollocks for a good half an hour, reducing the creature to a sobbing, withered husk.

“Thank you, thank you,” muttered the citizens of Utopia. “But how did you know that a blundering great narcissist with a history of self-promotion would be entranced by its own reflection.”

“Hold on,” warned Punchfist, holding up a hand for patience. “I haven’t finished yet.” He started booting the fallen beast in the crinkly clock weights for a good few hours more, finally retiring when his foot fell off. “Anyway, as I was about to explain, The Trumposaurus Rex is a creature fond of its own publicity. Like all politicians it is unware that the image in the mirror is, in fact, itself. By merely distracting the orange twat from his task I could then move in with a well-aimed boot to the love blobs.”

“Hurrah!” yelled the citizens of Utopia, and with Trump defeated there were no more wars or misery ever again.


Probably not.

PUNCHFIST! – Chapter 7 – I’m Bored Now

The Future

Trump has disbanded the Senate and declared himself Supreme Ruler of the United States, backed by Russia.

In the UK, Parliament has been overthrown and Farage installed as Conqueror For Life.

All major cities have been walled off, and small bands of rebels fight to survive in the wastelands of the US and England.

The Story So Far: Whilst trying to stop the building of a genital punching machine which Donald Trump has commissioned, PUNCHFIST! has snuck inside the factory which is putting it together. However, they are caught by Trump and his goons.

Now read on…

“You must be PUNCHFIST!” burbled Donald. “So sad. You’ve been caught. Game over, cuck.”

“Wait a second,” said Professor Bloodyintelligent from beside PUNCHFIST! “I don’t wish to micturate on anyone’s parade, but since the start of this ‘satire’ – which, let’s face it, is a meaningless stream of plop and knob gags, punctuated at random occassions by someone shouting ‘PUNCHFIST!’ –“


“Indeed,” said the Prof. “Anyway, the original idea was for this to be a biting satire with a Steve Bell edge –“

“Fnarr,” said PUNCHFIST! “You said ‘bell’.”

“Stop being so bloody childish,” said Prof, slapping PUNCHFIST! on the arm. “Anyway, it’s just a vaguely concealed rip-off of Seanbaby’s comic spoof ‘Man Comics’, so why don’t we all stop wasting our time and try and start again. Do something a bit more interesting than this load of old cak. Reality has far outstripped anything the moron writing this could imagine.”

“He’s right, matey,” said me, the author.

“Indeed,” continued the Prof. “At the time of writing (20/04/17) Trump has threatened to nuke North Korea and then lied about where he’s sending his aircraft carrier, the FBI have gone balls deep into the whole Putin-hacking-the-US debacle and the facking UK have just called a snap election which could see the Brexit dicks sinking their claws ever further into the firmament. This, on the other hand, is piffle. Satire is not just calling Trump a knob and taking the piss out of rednecks. And that’s not really even taking the piss! It’s just a bunch of shit accents on people acting dumb. I’m appalled to be part of this!”

“You make a very good point,” said PUNCHFIST! “If you’re talking political satire you’re talking Veep or In the Thick of It or something like that. Characters. Situations. Humour. This knobhead wants to be Spitting Image and ends up like… Shitting Bollocks, which isn’t even a thing! I recommend we all just stop being so bloody childish, re-think the whole ‘PUNCHFIST’ satire thing, and start again from the beginning.”


“And you can stop that for a start,” said PUNCHFIST! “What we need is a complete re-branding of this load of old cobbler’s cockends. No wonder no one reads the bloody thing. Get serious, but in a sort of non-serious political satire way. Just… stop it.”

“Exactly,” said the Prof. “I hate to get all meta on yo ass – see, the bloody writer thinks putting ‘yo ass’ is amusing for some reason!! Idiot. Anyway, I hate to get all meta ON YOUR BOTTOM, but let’s just go away, re-think the whole concept and start again. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said everyone ever.

“Right,” nodded the Prof. “Life is far too much like a bloody satire for this whimsical excuse to prick any holes in current events. Now let’s just start again from the beginning, but in a couple of weeks, giving Mr So-Called Bloody Writer a chance to rethink the whole bloody thing from the ground up.”

And then Chapter Seven ended.

Tune in at some point in the future for the next episode of



 PUNCHFIST! – Chapter 6 – Belle de PUNCHFIST

The Future

Trump has disbanded the Senate and declared himself Supreme Ruler of the United States, backed by Russia.

In the UK, Parliament has been overthrown and Farage installed as Conqueror For Life.

All major cities have been walled off, and small bands of rebels fight to survive in the wastelands of the US and England.

The Story So Far: PUNCHFIST! and his American counterpart IRONBALLS! have attacked a convoy heading towards the factory which makes the genital-punching machine which could spell the end to the anti-Trump and anti-Brexit revolutions in the US and UK.  To make matters worse, Trump is part of the convoy.  However, PUNCHFIST! manages to sneak into the factory as the convoy is under fire.

Now read on…

With the sounds of the battle receding behind him, PUNCHFIST! stepped into the industrial military complex and got his first taste of the sort of twisted mind which would construct a machine developed solely to punch people in the knackers (and fannies).

The guards were recruited from Trump’s own personal army, and thus kept walking into the walls, shouting at their reflections, and arguing over which was faker – the moon landings or climate change.  Some of them drooled, but all of them were heavily weaponised, even if a lot of them were holding the guns the wrong way around.

In front of him stood the factory of death, or extreme genital pain anyway, looming four stories high with choking chimneys belching clouds of sooty smoke into the air.  Two guards stood by the door, with one of them facing the wrong way and other sweeping his machine gun back and forth – obviously one of the more evolved chimps which Trump had hired.  PUNCHFIST! would have to brazen this out.

He strode purposefully towards the observant guard who turned a cautious eye on him and jabbed the barrel of the machine gun towards his chest.

“Who be going a’there, ya’ll?” managed the guard, the veins in his forehead pulsing with the effort of speaking.  “This here be a goddamn restricted type area, y’hear me?!”

“I am an intelligent scientist from somewhere with a long name with a lot of vowels in it!” bellowed PUNCHFIST!  “I am here to make the machine do stuff well!”

“Ya sound like a guldurn limey faggot limey,” said the guard, the barrel wavering towards the nose of PUNCHFIST!  “I hear there be a revolutionariat in the area tryin’ to de-molish this here goddamn machine, goddammit!”

“I am not PUNCHFIST!” yelled PUNCHFIST!  “He is the enemy of our people, despite being incredibly handsome and charismatic and in possession of the sort of genitals which would put a blue whale to shame.  I am merely a boffin, albeit a dashingly good looking and magnetic one.”

“I think here be you a spy,” said the guard, struggling hard to keep his brain from leaking out of his ears at using words in a structured sentence which wasn’t a series of whoops and howls.  “I be taking you into to see Trump.”

“Ah, Professor Sodbollocks,” said a voice from behind the guard, and a small man with crazy white hair which had seen the wrong end of a cattle prod stepped forwards.  A pair of half-moon glasses sat at the end of his thin nose.  “I see you made it just in time to add the finishing touches to the Testiculator 4000.  Come with me.”

“Erm, yes!” bellowed PUNCHFIST!  “I need to… adjust… the helmet settings.”

The stranger grabbed PUNCHFIST! by the arm and dragged him into the building.  Behind them they heard the sound of gunfire as the guard shot himself in the head by mistake, luckily missing the brain which rattled around in his cranium.

“My name is Professor Bloodyintelleigent,” said the man.  “I’m with the revolution.  If that yellow faced, tiny handed, mentally subnormal, barely human, sewer dwelling, backwards, conspiracy believing, climate change denying, fame hungry, sexist, racist shit pants thinks he can take over the world through the power of knacker crushing (and fanny slapping – let’s not be sexist) he has another thing coming.  Ooer, obviously.  IRONBALLS! told me of your forthcoming in a coded message.”  The Prof whipped out a small piece of paper and showed it to PUNCHFIST!  It read ‘FISTPUNCH! coming is’.  “We need to act fast.”

“That is why I am here!” yelled PUNCHFIST!  “Show me the machine and I shall PUNCH IT!  PUNCHFIST!”

“It’s not quite as simple as that,” said the Prof.  “This machine is made of the hardest substance known to man, Blimeyism, which we recently discovered after constructing the kitten crushing factory.  It will take more than one fist to break it.”

“Clearly you have never witnessed the power of PUNCHFIST!” yelled PUNCHFIST!  “PUNCHFIST!” he added, for good measure.

“We shall see,” said the Prof, and steered him around a corner and into an open area.  “Behold, and witness the power of The Testicular 4000!”

The machine was a mass of jutting steel spikes and quivering pipes hissing steam.  It was three stories high and the length of four elephants if they budged up together a bit.  It was built for mobility, with six wheels on each side, and a huge engine at the rear.  A cab for driving sat at the front with a steel ladder bolted to the side leading up to it.  At the very front jutted a nest of steel pipes, each with a boxing glove on the end.

“It is an abomination from the very bowels of hades bumhole!” said PUNCHFIST!

“And it’s very effective,” said the Prof.  “It’s built to wade through a sea of knackers and furry front bottoms and primed to never, ever stop.  I’m amazed these performing monkeys could manage to build the damn thing.  No amount of sabotage on my part has been able to stop the progress of this testicular mauling demon.  You, PUNCHFIST! –“


“- are our only hope.  I just pray to the Gods of Punching – if they exist – that your talents have not been misjudged.”

PUNCHFIST! clenched his right fist in anticipation.  “Let us see who is the first to break.”

“That’s an absolutely beautiful, wonderful machine,” said a voice behind them, and the Prof and PUNCHFIST! turned to find Trump standing a behind him, armed guards bristling at his sides.  “It’ll be so, so good, and there’s nothin’ you can do to stop it.  Consider yourself – dramatic pause – double dicked.”


Tune in next week folks for episode seven of



PUNCHFIST! – Chapter 5 – The Discreet Charm of the PUNCHFIST!

The Future

Trump has disbanded the Senate and declared himself Supreme Ruler of the United States, backed by Russia.

In the UK, Parliament has been overthrown and Farage installed as Conqueror For Life.

All major cities have been walled off, and small bands of rebels fight to survive in the wastelands of the US and England.

The Story So Far: PUNCHFIST! has teamed up with his American counterpart, IRONBALLS! just as news that Donald Trump is coming to visit the area where a machine for punching genitals is being constructed to subjugate the forces of revolution.

Now read on…

A thundering of heavy wheels.  The steady beat of the battle drums.  High pitched cat calls and random shots.  Trump was coming to town.

The convoy consisted of a tank at each end, and between them a ragtag collection of muscle cars and gas guzzlers overflowing with rednecks and angry looking men with no necks in business suits, and in the center The Trumpmobile – a mobile palace, decked out in gold, bristling with firearms and adorned with pictures of a smiling Trump helping the crippled, giving money to Jesus and punching Mexicans.

In the center of the mobile palace was a gold room, and within the gold room sat Trump in the corner, playing with a set of car keys which he jangled merrily in front of his uncomprehending face.

“This is so, so good,” he mumbled, eyes glazed over.  “Shiny.  Shiny light.  Shiny light of Christ.  Kill meskins!  I did a poo in my pants.  So good.”

The door opened and a gibbering, homunculus, unshaven, drooling sewer creature – leaving a trail of slime – lurched into the room.

“Bannon!” cried Trump, hefting his enormous bulk upright as his tiny hands flailed like the arms of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.  “The machine for punching balls?  Is it finished?  Have we got any Muslims we can test it on?”

“All is well, Master,” drooled the creature as it dripped bile from the suppurating pores which covered its body.  “Soon the world will know of how mighty your genitals are in comparison with all the flat pancakes which will be left after we let THIS fucker loose on the world.”

“Laugh at the size of my junk, will they!?” roared Trump, frothing at the mouth as his eyes started to spin in opposite directions.  “Just because all the women who’ve ever seen me naked spent the entire time doubled up in screaming laughter whilst simultaneously pointing at my penis doesn’t mean I have a microscopically tiny wiener, no matter what science says!!”

“Your genitals are massive,” soothed Bannon.  “But I fear we have more important matters to attend too.”

“Are you saying my dick is not the most important matter in the world?” said Trump, eyeing Bannon.  “And, hey, just because the image of Putin with no shirt on gives me funny feelings in the trouser area does not make me gay.  I love women.”

“Of course you do,” said Bannon obsequiously.  “Shall I cancel your Putin lookalike masseur.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Trump.  “Now let’s get on with these matters of state.  I’m a busy man with so, so many things to do.  I need to keep building this great ‘Murica and make it strong.  So wonderful.  How’s the border wall with Mexico coming along?”

“I fear trouble, your Extreme Wonderfulness,” said Bannon.  “After the last insurgency, we built the wall from 12 foot to 23 foot, but the bastards have gotten their hands on 24 foot ladders.”

“Those sneaky darn Meskins!” simmered Trump.  “Never mind!  Bring me a baby to eat!”

The door burst open behind Bannon and a gibbering ginger baboon hopped in, screeching and slapping the ground with its simian hands.

“What’s that, Spicer?” asked Trump.  “We’re approaching the factory?”  Trump tried to rub his hands together in glee, but his arms were too short to get near each other around his gargantuan body.  “Time to get sexy with the machine – I mean, time to inspect the machine.”

In the lead tank sat General Dwight D Bastardburger, Head Of All Trump Militia, eyeing the military industrial complex through the view port.  The complex was a mess of smoking chimneys and featureless grey buildings, bordered by a thick steel wall.

“Careful, men,” he growled into the comms mic linked to the rest of the convoy.  “If there’s gonna be trouble then this is where –“


An explosion tore through the muscle cruiser behind the lead tank, sending a fireball rolling into the air and scattering shotgun toting rednecks all over the place.

“A ding dang doo!” cried Colonel Balls T Itchynuts, the second in command.  “They’s got themselves a-this here raidy thang.  I married ma mother!”

Bastardburger hit the emergency alarm and the hooting sound of Trump whining in a high-pitched voice resonated throughout the convoy.


Another explosion tore through the column, blowing up the utility vehicle in front of the rear tank, scattering angry besuited right wingers to the four winds.

“The goddamn libtards have cut off our retreat!” yelled Itchynuts.  He scooped up the comms unit.  “Get those goldurn rootin’ tootin’ doors a-open, ya hear me, numb nuts!” He unholstered his sidearm and clambered for the turret.  “No ding dang snowflakes a gonna kick ma ass, goddamn cleche it!”

Bastardburger grabbed him and hauled him down.  “Ya darn fule!  That ain’t no normal snowflake!  That be PUNCHFIST!”

“PUNCHFIST!”  A third explosion tore through the column, tearing the mobile lynching truck into smouldering parts and blasting a phalanx of hooded Klanners to the dirt.

In front of the colony the gates of the industrial complex started to creak open as the rednecks, Nazis, Klanners and Wall Street Bankers started to return fire at the unseen enemy.

Itchynuts opened a viewing port and fired off a couple of shots.  “I cayn’t see th’ goddamn enemy, dammit goddamn!” he roared.

“They’s bein’ sneaky and hidin’ and not facin’ us likes real men,” said Bastardburger with a quiver of fear in his voice.  “Damn them snowflakes.  It just ain’t fair using PUNCHFIST! against us!”

Outside PUNCHFIST! and IRONBALLS! watched from their spider holes at the head of the convoy as the gates of the industrial complex finally juddered open and the preocession started to lurch forwards, snaking around the burning wreckage as the revolutionary forces took pop shots at the retreating caravan.

“Now is your chance!” roared IRONBALLS!  “Find that machine and destroy it.”

PUNCHFIST! held up his fist.  “I shall not rest until my fist has punched many of the enemy.  PUNCHFIST!”



“You’d best go,” said Spodworthy from beside them.

“The virgin is right!” yelled PUNCHFIST!, and scurried out of the spider hole, keeping low and sneaking through the open gateway whilst the forces of Trump were occupied with firing randomly in odd directions.

As IRONBALLS! watched PUNCHFIST! disappear into the industrial military complex, he couldn’t help wondering if their plan would work, and why Jaffa cakes weren’t technically classed as biscuits.


Tune in next week folks for episode six of