On the Buses, Terry & June, the Goodies and the Cannon & Ball Christmas Special

Blakey is walking along the beautiful snow-covered paving stones on his way to work. The roads are icy and there is a nip in the air. He is approaching the depot when he sees the unthinkable, a picket line!

Blakey. Ehhhhh, ahhhhh, ahhhh. What's going on ere? Ehhhhh. You can't picket it's Christmas Eve, all the folks need to go to see the lights up West End, eehhhh. And the kiddies need to get to Hamleys, eeehhhhhhh.

Stan and Jack are smoking fags and drinking out of a bottle of Grouse.

Stan. We're on strike Blakey. So baked patater!

Blakey. What? Strike? On strike for what Butlaaaaaaarrrr?

Stan. No Christmas do mate, that's what for. We work all year round, every hour that the good Lord sends, and no do, not even to celebrate the big fella's birthday. I mean, what kind of a muggy cunt corporation do we work for?

Jack. Yeah, so we decided to fuck off today's rota and have it here.

Blakey. Oh pipe down you clippy cunt. Now Butler, I'm warning you, if you don't get that bus out, you're fired, eehhhh. You know there have been cut backs due to the credit crunch, now what you should really be doing, instead of larking around drinking fucking scocth is getting that fakkkiinnn bus aaahhhtt, and be glad you've got a fakkkiinnn job you two bob muggy cunt.

Stan. Well you're fucked aint ya, coz I'm pissed as. I'm so pissed I couldn't even get it up when I was trying to stick me cock in my sister Olive's trap this morning, I've been drinking myself to death mate, so go and moan to some other cunt, you fucking cunt faced cunt.

Jack. Hold up there stan. Olive, your cock, her face. What's going on there?

Stan. Oh don't get all prude on me you clippy streak of piss. We all do it don't we?

The workers in the picket line are lost for words and stare at the floor.

Blakey. We all do what? Aaahhhh.

Stan. Rape family members. We all do it don't we? Don't we?

Blakey. No we don't you fucking 'orrible cunt. I'm calling the police, you're spending Christmas in the nick, fantastic. Aaaahhhh.

Jack. Stan, you're going down mate, unless you destroy the evidence.

Stan. You're right. Help me get this bus out, we'll drive to my place and kill Olive so she can't tell anyone that I've got her up the duff 24 times and all the kids are in the cellar.

Jack. Right o mate!

The bus pulls out, Blakey stands in front of it.

Blakey. Over my dead body you fucking cuntsss. Ahhhhh. Ehhhh. Agggghhhh, agggg aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

The bus hits blakey. Stops, reverses, stops, goes forward, stops, reverses etc, until Blakey is a thin crust ham and pineapple.
Jack and Stan piss themselves. (Raucous cockney laughter)...(About time too, this has to be the slowest Christmas Special in tfatp's history, I mean where's the bit when other famous 70s sitcom stars show up for no apparent reason and get brutally killed?... Oh here we go).

The bus skids across the roads on the ice. Ronnie Barker and David Jason are standing outside their shop.
Ronnie. Fuck me Granville, that bus looks pissed as a fart. Go and have a look.

David. Eh? what are you going to do whilst I'm looking at a speeding bus coming towards me? Hello, hello?

Barker has legged it inside and run upstairs and is flicking vs at his co worker from the first floor window.

Barker - Merry Christmas you fuckwit.

The bus ploughs into the shop taking the tank top wearing cunt with it.
Barker pisses himself laughing, until he realises his shop is no more. Close up of Barker...

Barker. CUNTS!!!! (Raucous cockney laughter)

End of Part One.

All duh pusts ah, mean me back tu, oohh wee, Memphis dis hut tudah

Piss stink gasoline dung blah. It's muh, Memphis Mike, everyuns favurut suthern buhhh. Jus ass sluppin huppy du see da pruss in duh full swung agun, jus lukes da res uf yus.
Fuckern ayy, brudahs, sweeaaaeeeett. Saw sum shut whuch wuld prubublah indarust yus peeps yuh knuw? Sum muddah fuddah trud du swup mah side urm frumma muh jus yusturduh. Su muh ussk da muddah fuddah, 'whus dus yus tunk yu is?' tuns ut he da pulice, muddah fuddah. Trued tu explun du hum dut mu furin shuts unto duh nught wus do shuw ruspikt ti du Reg Varnuy who is da shut, ya knuw?
Well da pulicemun turn uht to buh Blakey. Su uh, pul uht uh pruvisliy whull kunceeeellleedd chunsaw und sluced da muddahh fuddahh un du. 'uuuhhhhh, ull gut yus buhdlah'!
hu hu hu. muddha fudder.

Thin Edge of the Reg

On a serious note, thefuckallthatpress' hero, Reg Varney is dead meat copper.
Only the best die young eh? What a load of shit that is, he was well old.
You'll be missed by all at the press Reg, and all the millions of readers that we have here on blogspot.
Although Reg has gone, his spirit lives on in Winston's take on On The Buses. There will be a new Christmas special of the Mullins kind before the big J's birthday.
Don't forget people, Jesus' twin - Paul. He'll be celebrating the 25th with a bottle of scotch in a skip somewhere whilst you gulp down your fucking brandy butter. Yeah, spare a thought for him why don't ya, you fucking cunts. On the other hand fuck him! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

No that's not nice. Oh fuck it.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

I'll give you what for, you cunt!

Well, it's fine for some, those that can hide behind drinking problems, homelesness and the like.
But for the likes of me, life and it's daily struggle goes on, me ol son.
Paul and Jim are back in London, well sometimes. They are bemoaning the fact that they have nowhere to live, yet seem to be living in London one week (for £7.00 a week rent!) and then back in Cambridgeshire the other (for free!). Oooh waht a tough old life they have.
Winston and me are still in South East London. Winston is looking to escape from London and I'm looking toe scape from him, what a cunt he is.
The Damned book (now 3 years in the making) has three parts fully finished! Only another 7 parts to go, which means it'll be ready in 7 years.
The fucking Damned have a lot to answer for mind. The parts that are completed are 1 & 2(big interview with Brian James) and 9 (big interview with Monty). 9 is a huge chapter, and is all about the 'new' line up and the making of Grave Disorder. Grave Disorder was the band's last album, until now.
The fuckers have released another album, which means we have even more work to do. Luckily it is very good. But, every time I'm in a record shop and I quickly run by the D section I have sick feeling in my stomache. Why oh why did I say yes to Paul's stupid fucking idea of writing a book about a band who have a thirty year history and are still going?
Well, I think I've worked it out. Paul saw in me, a cunt to keep around for a few years who could keep him in snouts and beer when he was out of the readies.
Three years in and it looks like a masterplan. Fucking cunt.
It is also clear that Paul and Jim don't give a toss if the book ever gets finished, never mind published as the last time they contributed anything to it was three years ago.
What do you mean I'm moaning, go fuck yourself you shower of cunts.

I Drank the Thames Dry

Evening all. As we have written fuck all for over a year for The Damned book, we've thought of something new. Wahey!!
Please forward this site address to all your buddies. We are after drinking in London stories. The more lurid the better. All posts will be kept and the best ones will be published in a fuckallthatpress publication in the future.
So dig deep in those memory banks, do you remember slapping someone around the chops, sticking a kebab up your arse, pissing through a vicar's letterbox, throwing up on a bird you were trying to chirps, rubbing chilli sauce into your jap's eye for a bet?
Come on, you know you want to... Or have...
All you have to do is write out your tale and post it in the comments section for this post with the place and time it happened. We request you change the names of all concerned though so as not to offend your nearest and dearest. We don't like to offend here.
Fuck off you two bob muggy cunts!

Looking For Paulo

Ok people, sorry about the long lay off of articles, but to be honest fuck all has happened. Si has been working and Paul has been in the countryside at his estate shooting game during his golden years of retirement.
But...STOP THE PRESS!!!
The news is that Paul has returned to South London, obvioulsy missing the alarm call of police sirens compared to a herd of cows, but nobody at tfatp can get hold of him.
If anyone can help drop us a line on thebunny76@hotmail.com
Cheers for now.
Cock Snot

And he's off! By literature correspondent Barry Git, taken from this morning's edition of The Penge Cock Snot

Mr. Paul Brown Esq, is on the move! Now that the tfatp HQ in Penge is being reposessed, Paul has had to move out. As he is famous for his charming poetry, he is retiring to the beautiful countryside of Cambridgeshire. How a born and bred South Londoner with a penchant for self abuse will get on in rural East Anglia is anyone's guess, I'm giving him 2 months before he goes mad and takes out the postman with a double barrel shot gun.
To keep him company, Jim MacMarran has also left London and will be taking up residence, once again in Paul's mind.
Winston Mullins and Simon are both staying put in South London to work on The Damned book (like that will ever see the light of day), Paul will be helping via the odd drunken phone call at 3.30am on a work night when Simon will not answer the phone.
Winston, who was Jim's right hand man had this to say "It's the best thing for all of us, Paul is fucking mad and I'm glad to be shot of the cunt. Jim is just a total fucking wanker, so yeah, I'm chuffed to bits, I've always been the talent anyway, now I'll flourish without their chains holding me back. I'm in charge now, Rance is a fuckwit, he needs guidance to go for a shit, so I'll be writing all the good stuff, besides I am the creator of the On The Buses stuff and let's be honest that's the best fucking thing on here. The book? About The Damned? never heard about it... Which means it's going to be shit. Rance and Brown writing a book? Fuck off, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha...Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha... Those two doss cunts? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. I shit 'em"

Simon is mourning as Paul, his muse, leaves for the country. "I don't know, maybe I'll write another book about football that no one will read. Or maybe I'll just drink and smoke tabs. Oh fuck off, who are you? I don't want a bible, fuck off you joho!"

It's the end of an era that's for sure, how the press will cope being in two base camps is anyone's guess, is this the end of the urban scribes of the 22nd century? Let's hope so.

On The Buses Retire in Cambridgeshire featuring Jim MacMarran, Winston Mullins and Terry & June.

A retirement home in Cambridgeshire. Blakey and Butler are room mates in the terminal wing.
June walks in, she is no longer a star of a (s)hit comedy show, she now cleans old men's arses for a living.

June. Wakey, wakey.

Butler. Go fuck yourself, you fucking whore cunt.

June. That's not the spirit Stan, come now.

Blakey. Yeah, aaaahhhhh, ahhhhhh, Butler, that's not the spirit, aaaahhhh. Go on, clean his areshole, he kept me up all night farting, dirty fucker, aaahhh, aahhhhh.

Butler. Listen cunt, you and your two bob snoring ways keeps the whole retirement home up, at least when I fart it makes you unhappy, which in turn cheers up everyone else...You cunt!

June. Enough boys, now come on, I've got to change you Stan.

Butler. For fuck's sake, I'd rather lay in my own shit and piss than have your cunt lapping fingers around me bummer. You fucking dirty cunt.

Blakey. Ahhh, aaahhh, aaahhh.

Butler. Can't you say anything else you stupid old cunt?

Blakey. Yeah, your a cunt, aaah aaahhh.

June takes off Stan's nappy, the stench is rank.
Terry walks in, he is now a cleaner.

Terry. Cor, fuck me, what is that.

Blakey. Asaaaah, aaaahhh.

Butler. will you fuck off please, your wife is trying to get me kit off so she can blow me, you cunt.

Terry. You fucking cunt, I'll have you killed.

Butler. You and who's army you fat cunt?

Blakey. Ahhh. aaahhhhh.

Butler. Will someone shut that cunt up please? Fucking cunts, all of ya!

Terry. You shit bag, you shit yourself again? Ha ha ha.

Butler gets up, swings a left hook onto June's noz, takes the shit filled nappy and sticks it in Terry's mush. Terry dies. June is bleeding.

June. You can't hit a woman!

Blakey. He didn't aaah aaah aaaah.

June gets up off the floor and spits blood in Blakey's face.

Blakey. Oh no, she's given me the TB, filthy cunt, aaaah aaaah.

June takes the breaks off Blakey's wheel chair and rolls him towards the window, which is on 97th floor. Blakety falls to his death.

Butler. Good work cunt head.

Little and Large enter with Winston and Jim, they all rape June.
The End

It Killed Yer

See that time when you were 12 and fell in love with the painted girl?
And your broken heart and the social whirl that you hated when you loved that girl?And we all grew up and we pretended that we didn't care about that it ended
and we were men and we were strong and we didn't care that things go wrong,
but it wern't the cancer or the guv that billed yer,
it was the broken heart that killed yer
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Vidic flicked through the book he found in his suck tube. He didn't order this. 'These Violence Machines of Death and Grace'. What kind of fucking title was that for a book?
He only had ten minutes before he had to be dressed for inspection. If they found a fucking book on him with death and violence in the title he was in deep fucking shit. He couldn't afford another day away from the factory. If they found this book, he'd be thrown in solitary for at least 36 hours and they'd force him to stick that pipe in his arse again, and that was not an option. Scaffold rape was all the rage in the factories, the guards would tie you up, lube the scaffold pipe and shove it in your anus and they'd take turns pissing down it.
These were people who, back in the civil times would have been deemed to dangerous for the Army or the Police Force.
The only good thing to come out of the scaffold rape is that he could now conceal things in his shit pipe, but it would be asking a lot to find room for this book.

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Storley woke in the black room. He remembered it from the night before. It was Jim's room. He always came round to Jim's place to drink. They would sit for hours and drink Bud after Bud and listen to music downloads via Jim's portal. The curtains were always closed when he came round and the room was always dirty and full of smoke. Storley loved it, it was an escape from the relative calm of his every day life. Jim was his friend, he was different to everyone else, Jim knew him, I mean really knew him. There is no way that Storley wanted to spend all of his time with Jim, fuck that would be insane. Jim had a capacity for beer and scotch that nobody else had. If Storley had even wanted to (which he didn't) he wouldn't be able to survive long on Jim's diet of pills, beer and spirits.
But Jim wasn't there this morning. The music they downloaded before Storley passed out was still blaring out. It was Haircut 100. Storley heard Haircut 100 when he was a little boy, his sister played it. Then he heard it on a Dell computer commercial last night and demanded that Jim search for and download the track. It was called Fantastic Day. Last night Storley thought it was the greateset song ever written. Bud can do funny things to a man. It was on repeat, and Storley now thought it was fucking shit.
Storley went to the portal, it was a Technics download portal (rrp 850FMD), he hit various buttons, but it wouldn't turn off. His head thumping and his throat dry as a camel's cunt, Storley needed water, head ache pills and to turn this fucking noise off.
Storley searched for the plug, there wasn't one.
He screamed for Jim, there was no answer.
He tried the door, it didn't open.
He pulled the curtains back, there were no windows.
Like it or not, Storley and Haircut 100 were going to be spending a lot of time together, because this was it.
And that, as they say..Is that.

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Burnet's truck stopped again. Of all the times he drove through the lower hub of the westway this was the worst. With the three tiers on top of him rumbling away to bending point and the gridlock behind and in front of his rig, he was going nowhere today that was for sure.
He turned off the engine and the Mack truck's (rrp 230,000FMD) head lights and sat in the relative calm of the smog darkness. He took off his mask so he could sip some coffee, he fancied something a little stronger though, he fancied a Bud damn it, a bud, a man's drink, a beer of kings. BUD BUD BUD BUD BUD.
Burnet fell alseep and dreamed the pleasant dreams that the advertsing companies had given him via his suck tube that morning. Yeah tomorrow was going to be a great, no a fantastic day, I'll take the kids to Mcdonalds to thank them for being so darn nice and then we'll all go and watch a Disney movie, yeah that new one, what was it called, oh who cares all Disney movies are FUN. Then, I'll take the kids back to the factory, maybe go to the little lady's apt next door and share a Bud.
Then I'll kill them all, with a smile on my face the size of a KFC Tower Burger.

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Shelly Miller waited by the news portal for any sign of the TV man. She had ordered the booth rrp 250FMD, so she could finally communicate with her husband.
It had been three years since they communicated and eight years since they were married. Shelly was working as a ticket inspector on the trams when she met her husband to be. He was an average sized man, handsome and kind.
Which was great, if you liked that sort of thing.

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WHEN I DIE I WANT TO COME BACK AS A BUD

Miller thought this a particuarly genius piece of advertising as the red ad board stared at the entrance to the last Buddhist temple in the Free Market.
Miller licked his lips and went to the Zanussi fridge rrp 500FMD, opened up the cooler and pulled out a Bud. The initial Bud taste flooded his throat and lungs with a high that only a Bud can give. Miller was happy, this was a true Bud moment. He finished the Bud afetr three large gulps, let out a satisfied, manly, Bud sigh and slammed the bottle in the flip bin, by Starck rrp 750FMD - A real bargain from the design museum.He thought to himself, 'this is the life', and then, 'this is life' and finally is this my life?

I See The Boys Of Summer In Their Ruin...

Roger Kahn has long been hailed as the greatest American sports writer and after reading 'The Boys Of Summer' it is easy to see why. The book is divided into two main parts, with interludes and memoriums to fallen ball players filling the gaps.
Part one describes growing up in Brooklyn, within shouting distance of the no longer existing Ebbets Field, home of the no longer existing Brooklyn Dodgers. It starts with Kahn's family life and his early years in journalism which culminates in him being appointed to cover the Dodgers for two years, the team he has supported and obsessed about all his young life.
Starting his dream job, he follows the Dodgers from Miami, for Spring training to the World Series in both seasons making long lasting friendships with players that he knew fanatically as a regular at Ebbets Field and then as complex people each with differing philosophies, tastes, beliefs and anxieties.
The list of Dodger's in those two seasons include Jackie Robinson, the first black player to play Major League, the team slugger,'Duke' Snider, the greatest glove the game ever saw in 3rd baseman Billy Cox, Preacher Roe - the spit ball specialist, Erskine - the pitcher and master of the overhand curve, Campy - the catcher and winner of 3 straight MVPs, Black -the first black pitcher to win a World Series game and of course the short stop and captain, the late great Pee Wee Reese.
The second part of the book, sees Kahn tracking down The Boys of Summer, now retired from the game and living very different lives in different parts of the States. These stories are probably even stronger. I have read the book 3 times now and on the 3rd read I started at part 2 to soak in all the charateristics of these men and then finished with part 1, reading baout them in their sporting prime.
It has everything a great sports books needs: passion, soul and a true understanding of the game and the people both within it and outside it. Great sporting achievements are very difficult to put into words, but Kahn does it so well you end up rooting for both the team and him.
It is a story of a very diffrent time and almost a different world, but all avid sports fans who realise that the games we watch and the games we play are a passion, addiction and a love beyond the reaches of intellect and reason will love it forever.

Simon Rance, author of The FC Nantes Experiment.