kunt`s little book of celebrity odes

Words by Kunt and the Gang
Illustrations by Dan Button
www.heroofswitzerland.com
Foreword by Kunt
Hallo, it’s Kunt here.
A couple of years ago whilst touring around the country playing
gigs I jotted a few of my ideas for celebrity poems down. I
intended to release them in a book for Christmas 2010.
My illustrator chum, Dan from Hero Of Switzerland did a few
cheeky etchings to accompany them but regrettably I never got
around to finishing the book.
Earlier this year Jimmy Savile was denounced as a kiddie
fiddler and his gravestone was removed from the cemetery and
crushed. Since then, the world has gone into paedo overdrive as
every week a new celebrity nonce is named and shamed.
So I thought the time was right to let the book loose as a free
celebrity PDF-file, if only as a memory of a happier, more
innocent time when we could remember our radio and TV
presenters of the 70s and 80s with children sat on their laps
without thinking of them having wood. Enjoy.
Kunt. December 2012
Dedicated to any celebrities
who weren’t fingering kids
in the 70s.
Gary Coleman
One of my favourite
Small dead black blokes
Is Gary Coleman
Off Different Strokes
If Beyoncé was my fiancé
If Beyoncé was my fiancé
I'd never go outside
I'd spend all day with my fat hard-on
Wedged up her backside
Geoff Capes
If Geoff Capes
Did rapes
His strongman training
Would come in handy
Every time
He felt randy
Darren Day
Every time I read about Darren Day
He seems to be getting his end away
John Leslie’s dog (called Wesley)
They say that pets look like their owners
I don't know if that's true
But what if, in an unlikely sequence of events,
They acted like them too
Well, John Leslie's dog (called Wesley)
He'd be quite a sight
He'd be quite a large dog
That did just what he liked
And if he saw a bitch he wanted
He'd sniff her on the rear
And then pop out his lipstick
And growl to her, 'come here'
And if she tried to run away
He'd grab her with a smile
He wouldn't take 'woof' for an answer
And he'd do her doggy style
If Pete had a stammer
If Peter Sutcliffe had a stammer
Instead of a hammer
Those women he killed might still be about
Because he wouldn't have been able to get it out
Cherie Blair
Cherie Blair
Has a mouth like a letterbox
And in there
You could fit six or seven cocks
Michael Flatley
Michael Flatley
Riverdancer
Millionaire
Fucking chancer
Dot Cotton
Dot Cotton's
Front bottom
Coughs dust
Smells rotten
Shakin' Stevens
We all loved Shakin' Stevens
And his 50s retro cack
He should make out he’s got Parkinson's
For a sympathy vote comeback
Piers Morgan
I'd rather be bumraped
By a gang of well hung men
Than ever have to look at
Piers Morgan's face again
If Terry Hollands was my mate
If Terry Hollands was my mate
And someone fucked with me
He'd smash them in the fucking face
And throw them up a tree
Kelly Brook
Kelly Brook
Kelly Brook
You're alright in my book
And if you got your privates out
I'd like to have a look
I'd probably see some labia
And a clitoris
And a little tiny weehole
Out of where you do a piss
Michael Jackson
Michael Jackson
Here's the basic facts, son
He was born black
He died white
And in the middle he fiddled with kids
Gordon Ramsay
Gordon Ramsay gets on my tits
The bloke’s a fucking nob
If he came round my kitchen
Swearing and bitching
I'd smack him in the gob
Lorraine Kelly
Lorraine Kelly
You know her off the telly
I saw her gash on the internet
And it looked quite big and smelly
Len Fairclough
Created by someone's mind
He was born
And then he lived
And then he died
Fair enough
Fairclough
Problems in private life
Swimming pool
Got in strife
Little girls
Dirty stuff
Fairclough
If Josef Fritzl was my dad
If Josef Fritzl was my dad
You'd never hear this verse
I'd be trapped in a basement getting fingered
And probably much worse
CJ off Eggheads
If CJ off Eggheads
Came down my local
Had a couple of pints
And started being too vocal
About his general knowledge
I'd drag him out of the place
As far as the car park
And kick in his smug face
The Quiz machine asks
'Who sung Rhythm is a dancer?'
I can hear him at the bar mutter,
“I know the answer.”
He starts chapping off
To the landlord and owner
Saying it's Snap
When I'm sure it's Corona
So I press 'B' and it tells me I'm wrong
I hear him say, “See, it was Snap all along!”
So I pick up a cue which is used to play pool
I 'snap' it in two
And knock the cunt off his stool
I drag him out in the car park
Me bird's begging me to stop
”Don't, Kunt. You'll kill him!”
But I climb on top
I smack him once, smack him twice
And smack him again
He's almost unconscious
And then…
I pull his pants down
It goes silent
No one's making jokes
Some women are crying
And even some blokes
Then it goes a bit like that scene from Hollyoaks
I'm out of control now
I've got the red mist
I'm pounding away
Saying, “You made me do this.”
I pull out in silence
And squirt sexy piss
Only then do I notice the ashen faces
Of Judith, Kevin, Daphne and Chris
Noel Or No Noel. A short story.
The studio went quiet. The telephone rang four times. The
smart, middle-aged, bearded man with a fantastic physique for
his age, great hair and a particularly cuntish shirt picked up the
receiver. “Hallo.” Said the man. He listened to the voice on the
other end of the line. It was a gruff, grating voice, serious and
menacing in tone. The irritating elderly lady sat quietly on a
stool next to him with photographs of various family members
spread out in front of her, including a younger lady who was
predictably the subject of a human interest story - apparently
suffering from a debilitating illness that would mean she might
never realise her dream of going on an all-expenses paid holiday
of a lifetime to the pyramids / grand canyon / somewhere hot
and nice (delete as applicable). The handsome, immaculately
coiffeured fellow had spent the last three weeks desperately
trying to impose a wacky personality on the wrinkled crone
despite the fact he felt she was just a default boring old cow
who gave off a faint whiff of mint sauce and urine and
possessed an unusual amount of moles on her face, as if
someone had covered her head in Pritt Stick and thrown a
handful of raisins at her. Regrettably, one day a couple of weeks
ago he had encouraged her to recite a poem, which at the time
felt spontaneous and amusing but she had taken this as carte
blanche to do the same thing every day since. Eleven days on
and her tedious verse and increasingly tenuous rhymes made
him shudder. Though on the outside he smiled as if he thought
it was the sweetest, kookiest thing in the whole world, inside he
was secretly shouting, “SHUT UP YOU STUPID OLD
FUCKPIG. JUST SHUT YOUR FUCKING FACE. DO YOU
REALLY THINK ANYONE LIKES YOUR SHITTY
FUCKING POEMS? NO-ONE LIKES THEM. 'GAME'
DOESN'T EVEN RHYME WITH 'MAIN'. EVERYONE JUST
HUMOURS YOU BECAUSE YOU'RE GONNA DIE SOON,
YOU DECREPIT MOLEY OLD SLUT.”
But that was yesterday. Today the old lady was sat out front, at
the table next to where he stood and commentated on
proceedings, and he'd flattered her, laughed with her, even
feigned interest in her daughter's terminal illness.
He replaced the handset of the phone, paused and then said,
“It's the Governor, Pauline… Twenty six
thousand pounds.”
The old lady screamed with delight and
looked up into the crowd at the younger
woman with a slightly wonky auburn
wig and eyebrows drawn on a bit too
high giving her an expression of
permanent surprise. She was nodding
her head. The bearded lothario turned
to the old lady and solemnly asked,
“Pauline, are you ready for the
question?”.
Pauline nodded and replied,
“I think so, Noel.”
Noel took a deep breath and with the
consummate professionalism of over
thirty years in showbusiness and the kind
of gravitas you would normally associate
with a vicar at a child's funeral, he
delivered the catchphrase.
“Pauline… Twenty six thousand pounds… “Deal or no deal?”
Noel left the studio just after 10 p.m. and got in his Lexus. He
switched on his Sat Nav and punched in 'Whitechapel'. Two
hours and twenty-six minutes. A voice that sounded just like
Terry Wogan directed him through the outskirts of Bristol - ”In
one hondred yords, torn roight.” - and on to the M32. In no time
Noel was speeding east on the M4, with Keane's 'Somewhere
Only We Know' blasting from his stereo.
”Oh simple thing where have you gone…”
Tears streamed down Noel's cheeks and
nestled in his neatly trimmed beard. He
wondered how he had got himself in this
pickle in the first place but knew he had
come too far to turn back now.
“…I'm getting old and I need something to rely on…”
Noel caught a glimpse of his immaculately styled hair and babysmooth complexion in the rear view mirror and remembered
why he had to continue. He thought of all his contemporaries
and, as the inevitable signs of age had set in, how their apples
had fallen far from the showbiz
tree. Simon Bates was still
tragically eeking out 'our tune'
on Smooth FM, Keith
'Cheggers' Chegwin had
disappeared from public view
after briefly getting his cock
out on Channel 5 in the
nineties and Dave Lee Travis,
DLT, had been seeing out time,
Alan Partridge style, on some
obscure northern regional radio
network until he'd recently got
dragged into the Savile sex
abuse scandal after some
newsreader had gone to the old
bill because she’d remembered
him titting her up in the late
1970s. Noel had decided to just
ignore the recent rumour on
Twitter, so as not to fan the flames, that he himself had
undergone a pioneering surgical procedure that gatherered
excess skin from around his body and pulled it tight around his
backside, leaving his arsehole with a knot like a saveloy, thus
explaining his smooth facial complexion and constant
references to a 'crinkley bottom'. He regularly scoured the
internet for compliments on his youthful looks but any
speculation as to how he had managed to hold back the sands of
time made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.
Two hours and nineteen minutes after he set off, Noel was on
the Whitechapel Road, feeling pleased with himself to have
knocked seven minutes off what his Tom Tom said, even with a
stop, but making a mental note that he needed to work out how
to change the Sat Nav's voice as Wogan's cheery Irish charm
had started to sound sarcastic, bordering on mocking and Noel
half expected it to come out with, “Oi can't believe you dorn't
know the way from hare you steowpid cont.” If Noel had been
less absorbed in his own thoughts, thoughts of his worn-out
former colleagues, thoughts of his fantastic hair and his
sardonic Sat Nav, perhaps he would have noticed the black car
following him at a distance all the way along the M4, and which
even pulled in behind him at Chieveley services where he
stopped briefly to get a Yorkie and have a piss.
Noel pulled into a bay in between a couple of dismantled market
stalls opposite the Urban Bar and its gaudy orange tiger-stripe
paintwork on Whitechapel Road. He took a pair of leather
gloves from the glove compartment, pausing to briefly wonder
if anyone other than him actually kept gloves in their glove
compartment, having noticed once that Chris Tarrant's was full
of old Phil Collins tapes, a bottle of
poppers and a wankmag. He then reached
into the back footwell, retrieving a black
zip-up hoodie that he proceeded to put on
awkwardly in the front seat before
getting out the car. He walked round to the
back of the car, opened up the boot and
removed a large, dark brown, leather satchel
with a shoulder strap. He slung what
could definitely be described as a
'manbag' over his shoulder,
closed the boot and headed
off down a side road,
breaking into a jog further
down until he came to an
estate that quite honestly
did feel a bit edgy. It was the
early hours of the morning and
down the back streets
there wasn't anyone
else around.
Unbeknownst to
Noel a hundred
yards back down the road two figures
discreetly followed him.
Noel went up a stairwell that reeked of human shit. When he
reached the third floor this was explained when he saw, and
nearly trod in, what looked very much like a human shit. It had
a bit of sweetcorn in it and everything. He covered his nose and
mouth with his hankie that smelt of patchouli oil and made his
way furtively along the long balcony, past several doors that
looked as if they contained squalor and misery until he got to
flat 38. He stopped outside, his heart beating loudly in his chest.
He felt something move out the corner of his eye and turned
quickly but there was no one there. Noel put it down to nerves
and adrenaline. No matter how many of these missions he went
on he could never get used to the feeling of fear that engulfed
him should he ever get caught. The fear of having it all taken
away from him again and ending up a hasbeen like Batesy,
Cheggers or the Hairy Cornflake.
Noel was 58 when he got the call from the Channel 4 executives
inviting him back into the warmth of the TV bosom after ten
years in the televisual wilderness. The only notable job he'd had
in the previous decade was posing for a waxwork statue in
Yarmouth's wax museum.. They
had produced a dreadful melted
replica of him, which now stood
in between his obese pink
former sidekick Mr. Blobby and
a young Kevin Keegan waxwork
from the seventies that they
attempted to pass off
as a recent addition
by dressing it in a suit
and putting some talc in
the wig. Noel had publicly
attributed his sudden second
wave of success to the weirdo
mumbo-jumbo system of
Cosmic Ordering. The theory
behind it is something like, say
there's this bird you really fancy,
right. Well you have to write a
list of stuff you'd like to do to
her, you know, lick her out or whatever. Then you draw a
picture of you licking her out in biro on your hand and keep
looking at it and thinking about licking her out, and going on
about it to your mates and that. And eventually that bird will
start to fancy you and she'll probably ask you if you want to lick
her out and that. So that's how it's meant to work.
Noel checked once more and slid his Platinum Mastercard down
the lock, gently
releasing the catch and
allowing him entry.
The TV was seemingly
buzzing away to itself
in the lounge, one of
those late night things
where this second
division dolly bird who
after a few pints looks
well worth a squirt
keeps leaning forward
with her low cut dress in order to persuade you to fill in the
missing word and ring in with your answer at a cost of eight
quid a minute. He stepped in slowly and quietly, checking first
the kitchen, then the bedroom for any sign of life. Nothing. He
tiptoed through to the lounge and saw there was in fact a
scruffy young man asleep on the sofa surrounded by drug
paraphernalia and the remains of an uneaten Pot Noodle. The
young man's pork pie hat obscured most of his face but Noel
was in no doubt who it was. Noel removed a lace from his
boot, undid the fly of the young man's slim fit trouser and freed
his penis from his underpants. Deftly he tied his bootlace
around the young man's John Thomas just above the nutsac and
set about cooking up some skag. Within a short time Noel had
filled the syringe with a fatal dose and gently tapped the young
man's pork sword with a view to getting a good vein to stick it
into. As he carefully cradled the young chap's sausage in his
left hand and went to administer the terminal injection with his
right the front door burst open and two armed men were
standing there with their weapons trained on his temple.
“PUT THE SYRINGE DOWN, MR. EDMONDS. PUT THE
FUCKING SYRINGE DOWN. PUT IT DOWN. PUT THE
MOTHERFUCKING SYRINGE DOWN. PUT THE CUNT
DOWN. PUT IT DOWN. PUT THE MOTHERFUCKING
CUNT DOWN, MR. EDMONDS. NOW!”
Noel dropped the syringe and one of the men moved in and
began placing him in handcuffs.
”Noel Edmonds, I am arresting you for the attempted murder of
Pete Doherty. You do not have to say anything but anything you
do say may be given in evidence.”
“Mind my watch, it's a Rolex.” Noel cried.
The policeman looked through the hatch at the pathetic,
weeping figure with the immaculately coiffeured hair and beard
combo.
”I think Edmonds has shit himself, Sarge. It's all over the back
of his sand coloured jeans, Sarge. I think it must have come out
of his crinkley bottom, Sarge.”
”Get him some paper trousers then.” Ordered the Sergeant.
The well-groomed but slightly dishevelled figure in paper
trousers with a faint whiff of shit about him sat next to his
lawyer in the interview room. The whirr of a tape recorder
broke the silence. Two plain clothes policemen sat across the
table, a senior one in his fifties with a distinctive bald noggin a
bit like the bloke off CSI Miami and a younger detective
constable a bit like DI Bergerac's mate off Midsomer Murders,
the one who's still in it now, even though Bergerac's left.
The slaphead started the interview, ”Mr. Edmonds, we have
enough evidence here to put you away for a very long time. A
very, very long time. And I trust you know what happens to
attractive middle-aged celebrities in prison, Mr. Edmonds?”
”No comment.” replied Noel, staring at the ground.
“Put it this way, there'll be a lot of interest in your crinkley
bottom.” quipped the egghead.
“We caught you red-handed tonight, Mr. Edmonds. You've got
no option but to co-operate with us.”
”No comment.” replied Noel starchily.
”We can help you, Noel,” started the other, younger copper, the
one a bit like the one off Midsomer Murders, “we know this is
not your first crime. If you co-operate with us it will be taken
into account when your case goes to court.”
”No comment.” replied Noel. A single tear ran down his cheek.
Suddenly the door burst open and it was a career uniform
policeman, a bit like Tony Stamp off The Bill. “Guv, can I have
a word?” He said to the one with the bald pate like the one off
CSI Miami.
”Interview suspended at 0400 hours.”
said the dome
headed cop.
Noel and his lawyer sat in silence for ten minutes with the
younger detective before the hairless senior lawman returned
with several clear plastic bags, you know, a bit like the ones you
have to use to take your toiletries in on a plane these days but
bigger, each containing a different item.
”It's time to cough up, Noel. We found your trophy cabinet.”
As the bags were laid down on the table Noel's handsome face
went as white as a piece of white dog shit, like
what you used to see in the 80s but you don't
see anymore.
”They're not mine. I've never seen them before.”
Noel blurted out.
”Come off it. These items were all found hidden
In a secret compartment under the floorboards in
Your house, and by that I mean your actual house, not the mockup that you presented your so-called house party from on prime
time TV from 1991 to 1999 in the fictional town of Crinkley
Bottom.”
Noel's lawyer jumped in, “Can I please have a word in private
with my client?”
”There's no need,” said Noel, pausing poetically, “It's time to
get it off my chest.”
”Are you sure?” said his lawyer.
”Yes. I'm playing a one box game and I'm ready to deal.”
Over the next two hours the two detectives sat with a look of
disbelief as Noel Edmonds, former darling of Multicoloured
Swap Shop spilt his guts on the most unbelievable story they
had heard in all their careers. One by one he lifted the clear
plastic bags, and explained the objects within. In the first one
was a large blue feather.
“I plucked it as Rod and Emu lay there in a puddle” said Noel,
emotionlessly. “I'd always hated Rod since he made that fucking
emu attack me on Swap Shop. Take away that puppet and it was
just Rod pinching blokes' bollocks. I mean, fair play to him for
making a career out of it but he had to go. I knew if I moved his
aerial he would get fed up with the snow on his picture whilst
trying to watch the football and then go up on the roof in a
storm in his slippers to try and adjust it so that's what I did.
When he was balancing up there reaching for the aerial I snuck
up the ladder, then jumped out on them wanking, knowing full
well Emu would make a lunge for my stiffy, which made Rod
lose his footing and come crashing down with a sickening thud.
I just plucked the feather and ran off.”
The two detectives sat with a look of disbelief as Noel put the
bag with the blue feather in down and picked one up containing
a BBC Television Centre security pass with a picture of a posh,
attractive MILF on.
”The next one was a bit more difficult,”
said Noel, nostalgically. “I'd fancied
Dando for years. I got off with her
once at the BBC Christmas do, just a
bit of a kiss and a fondle, you know.
She was very drunk. I'd had a few
myself and had my tie tied round my
head. I'd been dancing to Spandau
Ballet's True with Batesy, DLT and
Bruno Brookes and went into a side
office to get away from the noise for a
bit. Jill was a bit younger and more
carefree in those days, I just
walked in to find her with her
knickers round her ankles
photocopying her minge. She didn't
seem fazed at all and sat there while a
dozen black and white copies of her
fuck funnel shot out of the machine. I
helped her gather them up and we
stuck one on the Director General's door with Blu Tack.”
Noel paused briefly to take a sip of water into his mouth, which
was situated between his neatly trimmed moustache and beard
then continued, “Anyway, I always hoped one day I'd get to
give her one but after my Crinkley Bottom got taken off telly
she never returned my calls anymore. One day I was walking
down her street and I saw her through the front window
pottering around arranging some pot pourri and that, then all of
a sudden I noticed this bloke in full camouflage gear having a
wank in the bushes outside her house. I later found out this was
Barry George, who called himself Barry Bulsara and made out
he was Freddie Mercury's cousin. So anyway, the following
week I made sure Barry was down the dole office getting his
giro and I crept round to Dando's house, waited for her to get
home after Crimewatch and shot her on the doorstep knowing
the old bill would want it cleared up quickly and blame Barry
for it.”
The two detectives sat with a look of disbelief as Noel put the
bag with the BBC Television Centre security pass with a picture
of a posh, attractive MILF on down and picked one up
containing a microwave oven.
”Ten years passed and in 2009 I had to kill again. I'd been
watching a lot of Poirot and that, and decided to do a right
ingenious one that no one would suspect was a murder.”
”Not…” involuntarily interrupted the shiny bonced detective.
“Yes,” said Noel, “Jade.”
”But how?” asked the younger plain clothes bobby.
”I'll tell you.” said Noel, and proceeded to tell them. “I hate
racism, and I'm all about the equal opportunities and that. If you
watch Deal Or No Deal we have all of 'em on there, your
Asians, your proper coloured people, black as your hat some of
'em, your disableds, your wheelchairs, stumpy ones, we've had
the lot. When I saw Jade on Celebrity Big Brother telling Shilpa
Shetty her surname should be 'Popadom' I was incensed and I
knew there and then that she would be my next celebrity victim.
I went to her house one day in disguise, with a big beard stuck
over my normal one like what Beadle used to do, and pretended
to be a locksmith touting for work and Jade fell for it hook, line
and sinker. I replaced her front door lock with a different 5-lever
mortice lock and kept a copy of the key. She was out with her
mum one day having a game of frisbee
over the park and I let myself in. I
discovered she was taking sleeping
tablets to help blot out the racism row, so
knowing she would be sleeping soundly
I hatched a cunning plan. Every night for
a month I let myself into her house and
then into her bedroom. With me I had
this microwave oven you see
here in the plastic bag, which
I had hotwired so it cooks on
the outside of it. As she slept
I pulled back the duvet, pulled
Up her nightdress and held her pissflaps
apart so the microwave transmitted
carcinogenic rays straight up
her Jack and Danny.
Eventually she was
diagnosed with the big C and
I knew she wouldn't make it through cos
of how many nights I'd spent sitting in her bedroom as she
snoozed with that appliance polluting cancer rays up her
sausage wallet.”
”But how come you didn't get the big C, Noel?” asked the
young detective.
”I wore a radiation suit.” Replied Noel.
The two detectives sat with a look of disbelief as Noel put the
bag with the microwave in down and picked one up containing
three leather belts and a pair of Ray Bans.
“My next one involved a trip out the Far East.” Said Noel. “I'd
always hated the film Death Race
2000, ever since my uncle was run
over in the late 70s in a copycat
incident with a Ford
Anglia on the A14
near Felixstowe.
So when I was
told I had to kill
again I decided to
bump off the actor
David Carradine. And what better and less dignified way to do it
than to mock up a stranglewank that went wrong… in a
wardrobe?”
”Oh, so that explains one of the belts, but what about the other
two?” asked the young detective
.
”One belonged to none other than Kristian Digby, presenter of
daytime property show To Buy Or Not To Buy, who I set up to
look like he'd had a stranglewank in his flat. I burst in and
tazered him, then when he was shaking on the floor I showed
him a porno mag and wanked him a semi-on then strung him
up.”
”But why him? For God's sake, why?” asked the young
detective, tears welling in his eyes.
“I was going to do Dom Littlewood but I knocked and he wasn't
in.” retorted Noel.
”And the third belt?” Asked the shiny-topped older cop.
”That dates back to 1997.” Said Noel factually. “ I'd always
wanted to stick one in Kylie Minogue. Honestly, I'd still ruin
that given half the chance. Failing me not being able to slip it
one, I'd always hoped that she'd end up with Jason Donovan,
you know like in Neighbours. My favourite 80s slowie is Angry
Anderson's 'Suddenly'.”
Noel broke off from his confession briefly and thought about
Scott and Charlene's wedding scene off Neighbours and how
moving it was partly because of the slapheaded Antipodean's
moving ballad what soundtracked it and tears started streaming
down his chops, forming glistening beads of salty boo hoo in his
tidy chin minge. “But Kylie started dating the Australian rock
god Michael Hutchence and I knew that after him she'd never
have me hanging out the back of her, and worse still Jason
wouldn't want to stir Hutchence's porridge so that was my
dream shattered on both counts. So I resolved that I would do
away with Hutchence at the first opportunity in the most
degrading way possible. And that's why I set up his
stranglewank.”
”That explains the third belt, but why the sunglasses?” asked the
young detective.
“I'd always wanted a pair of proper Ray Bans so I half inched
them off Hutchence,” answered Noel, “I'd only ever had snides
what I got off the market but you can really tell the difference in
quality with a proper pair.”
The two detectives sat with a look of
disbelief as Noel put the bag with the three
leather belts and a pair of Ray Bans in down
and picked one up containing a booze bottle
with a hand written label on saying 'Jesus
Juice'.
“In between Carradine and Digby I did
Jackson.” Said Noel matter-of-factly. “I'd
always had a problem with him over how
many singles his record company released
off Bad. It was just taking the piss. He had
plenty of opportunity to call time after Leave Me Alone but he
went along with it and let them release Liberian Girl. Fucking
liberty. So anyway, after all the allegations with the little boys I
initially thought I'd get to him by setting him up with a honey
trap. I paid for my good friend Jeanette Krankie, who didn't
have a lot of work on, to fly out to the States and, dressed as her
character wee Jimmy, she soon won Jackson's confidence and
got into his inner circle of little boys. It
worked a treat until one night, they were
all on a sleepover, looking at porn and
drinking Jesus Juice when Michael put
the moves on wee Jimmy and his cover
was blown when Michael stuck his
hands inside wee Jimmy's shorts and got a
handful of old lady’s minge.
So I went to plan B. Not the singer, he
was too old. I mean my back up plan. I
snuck inside Michael's Neverland ranch
one night when he was warming up for his
new tour, I was dressed in a chimp suit so
no one batted an eyelid as I walked straight past security
screeching and masturbating. Once inside I waited in the
shadows for Michael to come home, which he did and went
straight to bed in his oxygen tank. When he was asleep I got 9
acid trips, one for every single off Bad, and stuck them straight
up his arsehole, cos the skin's a lot thinner there so it absorbs
them quicker, and I sat there and watched as he went on a
massive ‘Bad’ trip and croaked.”
The two detectives sat with a look of disbelief as Noel put the
bag with the wine bottle with a hand written label on saying
'Jesus Juice' in down and picked one up containing a lamp
where the lampshade was made of human skin with old school
tattoos on. There was one of a woman and one of some dice.
The younger detective spotted what looked like a pair of human
nipples.
“My last kill,” Said Noel flippantly, “because you caught me
before I could do in Pete Doherty. But my best souvenir. I made
that, you know, a bit like Ed Gein or that woman who was the
wife of one of the blokes who ran the concentration camps.”
The two detectives looked at each other and gagged. A little bit
of sick nearly came up at the depravity and callousness of it all.
“I'd been annoyed about her album title 'Back To Black'.
Because you're not meant to say 'black' anymore, you're meant
to say 'coloured'.”
”No,” Interrupted the younger policeman who was more up to
speed with diversity and all that, “You've got it arse about face
Noel, you're meant to say 'black' now, not 'coloured'.”
”But black people don't like being called 'black'.” Insisted Noel.
“I know this because I was with Garry Wilmot one time and
someone called him a black bastard and he didn't like it at all.
Anyway, I'd seen Amy around in Camden so I waited till she
was out down the Hawley Arms, The Good Mixer or the market
or something and broke into her flat. When she came home I
waited behind the door and whacked her over the head with a
frozen leg of lamb, then I cooked it and ate it, cleverly disposing
of the evidence. Then I chucked a few syringes round and that
so everyone would think…” Noel suddenly looked pleased with
himself and broke into song, “she'd gone back to smack.”
”So what is the relevance of the lampshade?” Asked the
younger detective.
“I cut her tits off.” Said Noel casually. “And replaced them with
that fake pair that Gazza wore that time. I'd bid on them at a
celebrity auction and they were signed by Gazza and I knew the
cops would cover up Amy's missing tits so they could keep that
unique piece of football memorabilia, leaving me free to make
my ghoulish lampshade.”
“That's disgusting.” Said the younger cop.
“We'll report that to the IPCC, eh Guv,
so they can find out who it was?”
”Probably best not worry about that,”
said the older cop, thinking how
good the Gazza tits looked on his
mantelpiece, next to his signed
bubblegum card of Roger Milla
what he'd won off eBay.
”So is that the lot?” The older cop
asked, changing the subject.
“No.” Said Noel nonchalantly. “My first kill. I saved the most
famous one till last.”
”But we thought Michael Hutchence out of INXS was the first.”
Admitted the young cop.
”No.” Said Noel with factual accuracy. “He was the first in my
trilogy of stranglewank killings but not my first kill. You never
forget your first kill, and I have not forgotten mine. And nor
have hundreds of thousands of grieving Daily Mail and Express
readers…”
The two detectives sat with a look of disbelief as Noel put the
bag with the lamp where the lampshade was made of human
skin with old school tattoos on in down and picked one up
containing a key to a white Fiat Punto.
Noel continued, ”… For it was none other than Princess Diana,
The Princess Of Wales (and Peoples), Queen Of Hearts and
Hater Of Land-Mines. Yes. I killed the Princess.”
”WWHHHHYYYYYYY???” Chorused the policemen, both
actually being sick with disgust in their mouths but swallowing
it back down so as not to let Noel see how much his terrible
murder spree had got to them.
”Because let's be honest she'd become a bit of a slag.” Said Noel
callously without any of the usual reverence people have when
talking about Princess Di. “She was an embarrassment to the
Royal Family and so I thought I'd do them a favour and bump
her off. I bought myself a white Fiat Punto and hung around
outside her hotel and when I saw her and Dodi come out I
followed them into the tunnel and made them crash.
“But witnesses including Diana's bodyguard Trevor Rees-Jones
said they had seen flashes of paparazzi cameras. How do you
explain that?” Enquired the seasoned older cop whose head
resembled a pink snooker ball with a bit of hair round the side.
”I smiled as I rammed their car,” Noel admitted candidly, “and
the whiteness of my smile must have looked like a flash bulb
going off.”
The two detectives sat with a look of disbelief as they tried to
digest the enormity of what they'd just heard.
“But you must have had a greater motive than what you've told
us already.” Said the older cop when he'd had a moment to
think. “We all get annoyed by celebrities. I mean, I can't stand
that cardboard cut-out cunt Andrew Castle, and I think Coldplay
get more and more insipid with every album, and to be honest,
Noel, the neatness of your facial hair, your cuntish shirts and
your seemingly eternal youth have gotten my goat over the
years but you don't see me going off topping people willy nilly.”
The experienced spam-headed cop paused for a minute. “Come
to think of it you've looked exactly the same since the late 70s.
How do you do that?”
”You wouldn't believe me if I told you.” Noel retorted.
”Try us.” Chorused the cops.
Noel paused and looked the cops in the eyes.
”Celebrity souls.” Said Noel deadpan. “I made a pact with Satan
that I would harvest renowned people's souls for him, R-souls as
he calls them, in return for getting back on TV and him keeping
me looking young. He first contacted me the day I returned
from Yarmouth waxworks. Apparently one of his demons had
seen my desperation and nominated me to him as a candidate.
He'd been looking for a washed up former TV star involved
with the death of a member of the public who was desperate for
a comeback and eternal youth. I made up the whole Cosmic
Ordering thing as a red herring. Satan cannot be stopped. His
will will be done. As I have fallen another soldier will step
forward to take my place. And there is plenty of food out there
for my successor to feed Satan with. Have you seen Celebrity
Come Dine With Me, I'm A Celebrity, Strictly Come Dancing,
Celebrity Big Brother? They're teeming with R-souls.” Noel
laughed like a mentalist. It went on for ages. He was still
laughing as he was led back to his cell, still wearing the paper
strides where he had cacked his proper ones earlier.
Later on in the pub the two detectives sat with a look of
disbelief and a couple of pints in front of them.
”You don't believe in all that 'pact with Satan to regenerate
youth and fame' mumbo-jumbo do you, Guv?” said the younger
cop.
”No, of course not.” Replied the cynical older cop, catching a
glimpse of his bald noggin in the mirror then briefly thinking
about Wayne Rooney's new head of hair and upturn in form
since his abysmal showing in the 2010 World Cup… ”I don't
believe it for a minute. Noel just got lucky again and the shock
of a second bout of fame sent him mental. And for fuck's sake,
just say it was all true, Noel was on telly every day. How on
earth had Satan been contacting Noel without anyone knowing?
And even if Satan was behind this and wanted to do it again,
where on earth would he find another one like Noel? A washed
up former TV star involved with the death of a member of the
public who was desperate for a comeback and eternal youth?!”
The studio went quiet. The telephone rang four times. The tall,
wacky middle-aged man who weirdly looked a lot less tired and
washed up lately, picked up the receiver.
“Awight?” said the man.
Kunt and the Gang CDs / Downloads available from www.katg.co.uk
The end.
Kunt and the Gang DVDs available from www.katg.co.uk
More reading material is on www.kuntandthegang.co.uk/timewasters