The entire city of London, it would seem, has become obsessed by the Olympics. Now, while I’m delighted by team GB’s successes, I gotta admit that I have been more absorbed by an alternative sporting event, the Cunnilympics, which is held every four years in the Twat and Merkin pub, down the Old Bent Road. Like the original Ancient Greek version, Cunnilympic events are performed naked, although, unlike the originals, they consist mostly of contestants performing athletic, and sometimes dangerous, sexual acts. There are parallel bar events and ring events and several kinds of marathon. There are sprints and shooting and a very interesting variation on weight lifting, and this year synchronised masturbation was included in this venerable (venereal surely: ED) sporting line up. The Cunnilympic version of the pole vault is probably the most dangerous event and, after table tennis, was always my favourite, until this year that is, when I was able to get tickets to the men’s relay final and the heavyweight cock wrestling.
Four teams of strapping, naked and erect young men, from America, Russia, Great Britain and China, stand in the centre of the arena, in front of an audience of mostly women and gay men and wait for the starting gun, all of them stiff and twitching in anticipation. The idea of the competition is for each athlete to grasp their neighbour’s ‘baton’ and bring them to orgasm, at which point the neighbour grabs his neighbour’s cock and so on until all four contestants have come, the first team to have all their athletes blow their loads, being declared the winners.
The instant the starting pistol fires, four powerful hands grasp four pulsing pricks and start furiously pumping them up and down. The Chinese get off to a flying start with How Hee Cum squirting a thick streak of jiz over the back of the Russian reigning champion, Boris Jerkov in just under 20 seconds. Next to come is the American Mark Spurtz, who, despite his nine inch member has been training hard for up to eight hours a day, and as he comes into his partners face he shouts “God bless America!” and turns expertly to grab Joe Spunks twitching prick. The British are in a close third place and catching up fast as Bradley Cummings lighting fast fist coaxes several hot, thick squirts of cum from Robin Bellend’s tiny but potent shaft. Then disaster strikes as Paul Bollokov slips in a puddle of Karl Kumova’s semen and drops his baton, earning the Russians instant disqualification. After one minute forty-eight seconds the Americans and Chinese are neck, and neck and Cum So Fa and Dick Seaman start to shoot their goo together. Its going to take a careful examination of the slo-motion replay to decide this one, and as they both grunt and jerk their way to conclusion and glory, the crowd cheer “Come on Britian!” and they do.
Still sticky with sweat and each other’s juces, the team captains mount the podium, erect with pride, as the queen herself hangs their medals on their throbbing members. The crowd go wild and get ready for the heavyweight cock wrestling, where two amazingly well endowed athletes will clash cocks until one of them becomes flaccid.
Now, I’ve voted Labour all me life, jus’ like my old man did. I mean, its the party of the workin’ class, ain’t it? Can’t stand them Tory cunts, all posh an’ that. So, you can imagine my fucking ‘orror then, when this posh cunt turns up at my fuckin’ door, tellin’ me ‘e’s my Labour member of fuckin’ parliamnent. I mean, this cunt’s more middle-classed than the fuckin’ queen, the cunt. Know what I mean?
An’ ‘e’s all bangin’ on about them air-to-surface missiles the army got up on our roof for the ‘lympics an’ that, an’ ‘ow that makes us a target for terrorist attacks, an’ ‘ow that violates our ‘uman rights and shit. Now Mickey’s on the Wii an’ everyfin’, but ‘e knows that if ‘e ‘ears me screamin’ the word ‘cunt’ for more than a coupla minutes at some mother-fucker, then ‘is attendance is required. ‘e ‘splains to this little wank stain just ‘ow much ‘e loves ‘avin’ our brave boys on the roof, an’ ‘ow ‘e loves to take ‘is youngest up there to look at all them uniforms and guns and stuff, ‘ow proud ‘e feels. I keep me mouf shut about ‘ow we’ve been floggin’ them boys with the S-to-A crack and ice and acid and let Mickey just tell ‘im that no tree-huggin’, bi-fuckin-sexual like ‘im can ever represent the workin’ man. Know what I mean?
Any’ow this ‘omo Cambridge cunt comes out with all this “…but even if we did intercept a genuine terrorist threat, the plane those chaps shot down would still, nevertheless, crash into a residential area, killing hundreds, perhaps thousands of innocent people.”
“Yeah,” I point out, “poor people though, not dignitaries or celebrities, but people what don’t matter!” and while I’m wondering just what it is they teach these cunts at uni-fuckin-versity, i catch Mickey, out of the corner of me eye, searchin’ ‘is pockets for a blade. Now, I don’t wanna see some politician sliced up on me own doorway, that just ain’t democratic, if you know what I mean. So I send Mickey back to the console and deal with the situation meself.
I coulda been a good politician, I reckon. I only had to dangle that cunt over the balcony, by his ankles for 8.5 seconds before ‘e done what politicians call a U-turn. That’s faster than what Usain Bolt run the 100 metres. Know what I mean?
Customer service is not really something we do well in Britain, its not something we do at all, if I’m honest. Often you can purchase items from a store without a single word being shared with the cashier. The girl in my local store is permanently on her phone and the only contact we share is the angry glare she will shoot at me for having attempted to interrupt her.
I imagine that this is something that would infuriate a lot of Americans, it infuriates a lot of Brits too but not me. I think its funny and very British. I hear that outside of London things are different (I try to avoid leaving London, if I can at all help it), but here, that’s how we do things: I buy my shit, you sell me it, there’s no need to suck each other’s dicks on the way.
Sometimes, on the rare occasions that some chirpy little dicksplash behind a till, grins at me and says “Good morning Sir! How are you today?” I like to fuck with his, or her, head and respond with something like,
“Well, my dog died and my wife left me and I’ve been diagnosed with bollock cancer, and I lost my job and am on my way to my best friend’s funeral. How are you?”
The other day I was smoking a joint with a friend on the canal tow path when a tourist laden barge chugged past us. Two beaming children were waving at everybody from their window seats. My friend and I didn’t even have to look at each other to know what to do, and with what must have looked like choreographed synchronisity, we flipped them off.
Sometimes though, we do have our moments, times when customer and cashier connect and share a little something. I experienced two such moments today. The air vent in my living room window was broken. I had no idea what I should ask for or what size I needed, so I unscrewed it and took it to the hardware store with me. “Do you sell these?” I asked the old guy behind the counter, plonking it down.
“Dirty, broken ones?” he replied, “I’m afraid not Sir.”
After purchasing my shiny new window vent, I popped into the pub on the way home and ordered a Virgin Mary. The barmaid wanted to know if I wanted Worcester sauce with it. I did, and as she held this gigantic bottle of sauce over my glass and shook it, to tease a drop or two into my drink, the top popped off and Worcester sauce flooded my glass and gushed all over the bar, pouring over the edge and onto the sawdust coated floor. She looked at me, smiled and asked “That enough?”
Cum on Britain
They are holding the Olympics in London this year and, as a patriot, I want to see Great Britain do well. Looking at the list of events though, there seemed to be very little chance of that. What is needed, I thought, are some new events, something that we Brits can really excel at, but what? After all we are a nation of complete wankers. Then it hit me, like cum in the eye… competitive masturbation!
I decided then and there to write to the mayor of london with some of my ideas, something that could herald a new era of sporting greatness for this country of mine.
First up would be the sprinting events, better suited to the younger athlete, I envisage one of our wonderful spotty teenagers winning gold and setting a new world record in front of thousands of adoring fans by coming in under three seconds. I can see the queen hanging the medal on his twitching dong as he stands atop the podium, the national anthem playing proudly behind him.
Then there are the endurance events. Imagine the commentator, “… and its been 27 hours and 43 minutes and still this giant of a man has not come. Surely another gold for Great Britain!”
I had most fun though, dreaming up the team events, like the relay and synchronised wanking. Just imagine it, a ring of proud erect young men with their hands wrapped firmly around each other’s dicks, all coming together in perfectly timed unison. Listen to the crowd, on their feet, chanting “Cum on Britain!!!” over and over. What a delight that would be and another gold medal for us.
There has to be, of course, what I would call distance events, something like the javelin or the shot put, in fact, we could call it the ‘put shot’. My personal best is just over five feet but I am sure there are proud young men in this wonderful shithole we still dare to call great, that could perform far better than that. Get training boys. Accuracy events too, would have a place, rather like darts or archery but with a slightly stickier projectile. Winners again. GB cleaning up, topping that leader board.
And, there has to room for the more artistic, creative, events, of course. Picture something rather like the event where the girl prances around on the mat with a long ribbon. Go on, picture it.
“What about the women’s events?” I hear you ask. Isn’t that already covered though? Isn’t that what synchronised swimming is?
So come on you fine young youth of Britain, get training, go on, knock one out right now. Do it for queen and country, and if your mum walks in, just tell her you are being patriotic.
Cum on Britian. We can do it.