thinking about buying this wig

"Mr Akabusi, please come in" said the secretary as she adjusted her horn rimmed glasses and felt the sudden rush of blood to her clunge.

Akabusi strode into the room like a Titan with a clown face. His eyes were drawn to the secretary's tight black pencil skirt and loose white blouse, through which he could see a straining white bra and within that a pair of massive bristols.

"I've come to fix your pipes" announced Kriss with his deep barotone timbre filling the room like spunk filling a vagina after after a ten year prison sentence.

The secretary quickly sat on the desk and unhooked her tight Croydon facelift hairdo unleashing waves and waves of lush brown hair.

Akubusi dropped his dungerees and let his throbbing member fall to the ground. As he spied the secretary's glistening axe wound his cock stood to attention quicker than a Chelsea Pensioner at the Cenotaph.

He then banged her. And banged her. And banged her. Until the secretary was like a floppy doll covered with spunk.

As Akubusi wiped his now flacid python on some company stationery he whispered "Awooga" to the naked secretary and patted her on the fanny.

The End

Akabusi scaled the walls of the £756,000 Sussex mansion with all the stealth of a gekko on a Mallorcan shower wall. As luck would have it the window was open. He dropped in and slipped out of his dungerees and let the cool air caress his polished ebony skin.

The house was quiet. He looked into one room and saw the sleeping Peter Andre - without the wig and wax on his face he was rather beautiful. But Akabusi wasn't into arses. Not today.

He heard a noise coming from the bathroom. He ran along the landing, his giant cock swinging in the air like Saddam on Youtube. He looked into the bathroom and saw a mad little f**ker, big as a barrel and blind as a bat leaping up and down in some boiling water.

"Akabusi!" said a voice behind him. "Stop looking at my son with your cock out".

Akabusi slowly turned around and saw Katie Price in front of him - wearing nothing but a Juicy Couture camisole and the slightest glistening of her ample clunge.

As ever Akabusi's cock became harder than the Guardian cryptic and proceeded to bang her tits off as Harvey ate a bag of Prawn Cocktail crisps from the floor that Akabusi had brought just in case.

Before Akabusi left he wiped his now dying cock on Harvey's afro, bent down to the prone Jordan, who lay liked a painter's radio in the moonlight, and whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End

Akabusi didn't like going to the dental hygenist as much as the next man but his smile was his bread and butters. So he lay back on the patent leather chair and felt his anus tighten like a pupil in flashlight.

The nurse came into the room and immediately Akabusi could smell pussy and it was strong. Within the confines of his dungerees he could feel the old chap twitch like a Michael J Fox without the pills. The nurse bent over Akabusi to check his molars and he caught a glimpse of her huge bristols.

He said "Ahhh". As the nurse left the room to get a lollipop and a sticker Akabusi wasted no time. He leapt up and slipped out of the dungerees, letting the air con in the room tingle his black and curlys. He thought briefly about having a w*nk before so he could last longer but it was too late.

The nurse walked into the room and spying the naked ebony Adonis before her became wetter than a paper towel in a Koh Sumai hotel on Boxing Day 2004. She let the white tunic slip to the ground and unleash an epic pair of tits and a pussy with less hair than Lex Luthor.

Akabusi mounted her like Dettori and rode her in the dentists chair until he came all over her like an airport fire hose. Because his mouth was so numb from the anesthetic he went down on her soaky wet clunge piece for about an hour before he came. And her as well. Obviously.

As he pulled on his dungerees he wiped his now fallen hero on the lollipop the nurse had given him, bent down over her spattered porcelain body and whispered "Awooga" in her ear before patting her on the fanny.

The End

Akabusi sat in his Corsa in a layby on the A12 demolishing a king size Toffee Crisp like a heavyweight boxer fighting a spastic. He was pretty depressed. A personal sex tape he had made with his running mate Colin Stagg and a couple of Somalian girls in a Travellodge near Heathrow had leaked onto the internet and his performance had been less than Olympian.

To cheer himself up he decided to drive down to Canning Town and collect the rent from one of the 14,000 houses he owned in the area. Akabusi and Linford had been put onto the area by Lord Coe way before the Olympics were even mentioned and they were in line to make a killing. Akabusi kept a low profile but Christie had been seen walking around the streets dressed in ermine and putting his diamond encrusted lunchbox through letter boxes.

There was one c**t that owed him £20 in arrears and lived on the site of the future Richard Rogers designed Olympic Darts Village. Akabusi wanted to break ground on this site within six months because the foundations to hold these fat b*stards had to go over 100 feet down.

He wiped off the chocolate crumbs from his "collecting rent" dungerees as he knocked on the door. He loved collecting money and pushing people around so even now his ebony one eyed titan was twitching like a sexy dying black man. When the door opened his mounting erection shrunk from the size of the large Krankie to the size of the weird woman/boy one.

There before him was a Muslim woman dressed from head to toe in a naqib. He could see nothing except a pair of eyes that looked like day old Maltesers in two small dishes of spunk. He knew that underneath the thick cloth lived an epic pair of creamy bristols and a clunge as untouched as Cliff Richard's cock. He wondered briefly what it would be like to f**k a jet black post box as he barged into the terrace property.

Akabusi pulled religious iconography from the walls and threw them into the fireplace, roaring with laughter like man possessed. Before long he let slip his dungerees and felt the damp, stale air of the crumbling property encirle his behemothic, onyx form like flies around sh*te. He looked across at the cowering woman in the corner - her eyes showed more fear than a Brazilian running for the Tube - and he felt his cock grow to vast proportions. The starless night of his pulsating hymen killer took his breath away and most of the blood in his body. His helmut was so hard he thought about patenting it and selling it to the army.

He stood in the room looking like a shiny charcoal crucifix with a one of the arms sawn off. He approached the woman. She needed no encouragement - she ripped off her naqib and revealed a pair of tits that men would travel miles to worship and have a tug under. Her pussy was covered in hair so black and dense Akabusi thought he was looking at Richard Blackwood as a child. She wore stockings and suspenders and a pair of 6 inch heels with a stilleto so long and sharp that Akabusi felt sure he could use it to clean out the munge in his battered Japs eye.

"Mr Abbakumi. I must insist if you are to take me, that you wear a condom, please, thank you" said the newly eroticised young woman. "f**k off, even if I could find a johnny big enough to encase this giant ** my sperm are so vital they would chew through it and eat your eggs" cried Akabusi.

Before he knew he was up to his giant nuts in the girl who was taking to this f**king lark like a pig in sh*t. He smashed in more back and front doors he felt like S019. Within hours he spunked a road map to peace all over her back and rubbed it into the gentle down that covered it. As he stood over her, his cock now an empty shell and his balls hanging like punctured leather footballs, he felt he had made siginificant steps in bridging religious divides. And getting his knob wet.

"Thanks for the bunk up lady. But I Mustafa my rent by next week!" roared Kriss as he pulled on his dungerees and popped his cock into a special denim pocket his mum had sewn in for him. He pulled a gold statue of some god or something from the mantlepiece and pocketed it. "That'll do. For now".

He bent over the pile of spunk, formal Islamic clothing, minge hair and smashed icons and whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End

Akabusi sat back at his desk in his £127,000 mansion outside Luton as he sent off another lottery scam email to an unsuspecting victim. He had been keeping a low profile since the Tanni Gray Thompson Testimonial - there had been problems with access and Tanni had been left in the car park.

He'd spent most of his day walking around his study naked, the newly installed central heating allowing him free and easy nudity. After watching Working Lunch Akabusi positioned a full length mirror so he could have a %&*$# as he flexed his biceps which were so black and shiny you wouldn't be embarrassed to upholster a Porsche 911 with.

He had to drive to Letchworth later to open a new JJB Sports with Roger Black so he turned off the computer and popped his dungerees on and headed to the kitchen to toast a blueberry Poptart.

Before he got to the bottom of his walnut finish stairs there was a loud knock at the door.

As he opened the door Akabusi knew he was going to fuck something this rainy afternoon. There before him we two young women both in smart pencil line skirts and green blousons that he knew concealed at least four epic bristols.

"We're Scientologists!" chimed the duo with accents sweeter than Midnight Hot on FTV when the missus is out. "Would you like to take a stress test?"

Before he knew it Akabusi was serving blueberry Poptarts to the girls in his second living room. Akabusi could feel a spasm in his veiny colossus every time the girls said Dianetics and before long he "accidently" let his denim dungerees drop to the shagpile revealing his toned form that was as black and scary as a balcalva in Derry.

The girls didn't flinch and attached the cold metal of the E - Meter to his now throbbing ebony hose. "Do you like Tanni Gray Thompson?" was the first of many questions asked by the two blondes. Throughout the dials made no movement.

"Would you like to fuck us both on your pleatherette settee?" asked one of the girls. Immediately the E-Meter exploded and Akabusi's %&*$# became so hard he knew he could drill to Calais if they needed him.

He pulled the girls blousons apart with his newly cleaned teeth as they slipped out of their tight skirts exposing four pert and peachy tits and two clunges with so little hair he thought he was looking at Right Said Fred as kids.

He barged into the two of them like a stock car and before long he was plunging his Super Tennants can of a %&*$# into one girl's arsehole as he used his famous tongue on another's clunge that was wetter than a 21st on the Marchioness.

Within hours it was all over, the Scientologists strewn across the plastic sheeting Akabusi had put down moments before copulating. In his head he was humming Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings as he had never seen such twisted naked flesh, cum and blood since Hazel Irvine cam over. His battered %&*$# weeped the last remnants of his powerful seed as he wound it up and slipped into his dungerees.

"Would you like to meet Tom Cruise, Mr Abukusbi?" said one of the girls as she coughed up a short and curly hairball.

"fuck off, I know Fatima Whitbread!" roared Akabusi with a laugh that filled the spacious two bedroom semi like Fern Britton in a thong. He bent down, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear, patted the other on the fanny.

And walked out of the house, slamming the door. Then remembering it was his house. And he was wearing his indoor dungerees. He had no car keys. And he was late for the JJB Sports opening in Letchworth.

The End

Akabusi was uncomfortable unless he was wearing a pair of dungerees or stark bollock naked so he walked into the Jimmy Savile Row tailors with trepidation. He needed a new suit for a Tanni Gray Thompson testimonial he was speaking at.

"If you could slip out of your dungerees, Mr Akabluisi" entoned the fay tailor. "It's Akabusi" said Akabusi as his laugh filled the cluttered shop like an arsehole on creampie.com.

Kriss let the straps of his denim dungerees snap and the fabric rushed passed his polished espresso chassis leaving him standing naked. The rarefied air of the tailors brushed against his black and curlies like a fart in a tanga brief and for a moment he felt like a black Messiah.

"Miss. Portensa will measure you up" said the tailor as he disappeared out back for a tug and a weep.

Portensa strolled into the room and immediately Akabusi felt a twinge in his king size plonker. She was wearing a little black dress which he knew concealed a fantastic pair of tits and almost certainly a clunge so tight it shopped at Poundland.

"Just relax, Mr Abakuski, while I measure your inside leg" she said with a French accent richer than a Guinness sh*t. As Kriss felt the cold metal of the tape measure climb up his leg, he could feel his black boa fill with blood quicker than tampon on the first day.

Before he knew Miss Portensa was handling his growing concern like Pat Jennings. She pulled apart her dress to expose her smooth white skin, epic bristols and a fanny more hairy than Richard Keyes back.

He ploughed into her like a tighthead forward and plunged his now diamond hard cock into her like he was staking Dracula. Within hours it was over, Miss Portensa a useless pile of tit, minge and spunk and Akabusi panting and sweating like a multiple rapist.

Akabusi rolled up his mickey and pulled on his dungerees. "What about the suit Mr Abakusi?" breathed Portensa.

"f**k it. I'll wear me dungerees. It's only Tanni f**king Thompson" roared Akabusi as he bent down over her bloodless torso, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The end

Akabusi had always felt slightly uneasy about his genital stirrings when watching Natalie Portman in the 1994 film, Leon. But such concerns rarely held his thoughts for long; As Roger Black pointed out at the time, she was going to be 18 eventually. Busi could always rely on Black's moral compass for direction – as long as it wasn't anything to do with Tanni Grey-Thompson or her army of window-lickers.

Regardless, it wasn't 1994 anymore (for one thing Busi wasn't the reigning Olympic 400m hurdles Bronze medallist). This was 2007, and Kris Akabusi was an all together different sort of hitman. He was a clunge-assasasin, and Portman's sweet flange was one of the few Hollywood targets that had eluded him. The mere thought of this made his chocolate wand flex involuntarily like a steroid-enhanced bicep. Forget forbidden fruits (Busi didn't fancy homos), Kris wanted fanny.

Akabusi's constant need for new conquests meant that he rarely had the chance to plan who was going to be his next victim. But today was different. It was only noon and he'd already got in two great wanks, and had followed it up by bully-ramming GMTV's Penny Smith. Posh totty always seemed to think they could handle Akabusi's historic man-length, and Smith was no exception. Much like those who had gone before her, she was deeply and horrifically wrong. Having simultaneously penetrated every available orifice and stoutly ignored her cries for mercy, Akabusi had left her lolling limply over the GMTV sofa like a labrador's tongue. Except wetter. Let Holmes clean that up with his hairy hands he thought smugly.

With his mind now briefly expunged of his rampant clunge-lust he was able to plan his insertion strategy for Portman. He knew for a fact that she was obsessed with the shit, over-priced outdoor pursuits shop, Millets; and that this being a Tuesday she was probably in their Luton branch looking over light-weight anoraks and second hand tent pegs. Hollywood clunges were more predictable than a suicide bomb in Baghdad. And potentially just as explosive. Hopping lightly into his new tartan dungs he flew down the stairs like a trapped bee, bouncing off the walls with all the excitement of a div kid with a sparkler. He thought about having a wank on the staircase to help keep his focus, but decided against it. He was absolutely determined to drown Portman in a cream flood of biblical proportions.

His journey to Luton was relatively uneventful. At one point some idiot in a Vauxhall Nova flashed past him, and Busi caught sight of a bumper sticker that informed him he'd been "Nova-taken". A black rage descended over Busi, and he slipped calmly from second to third gear, rapidly approaching 88 miles per hour. This wasn't Back To The Future, but this chav bastard was gonna get spazzed up like Michael J Fox nonetheless. Pulling alongside the Nova, Busi gave his giant trunk a quick squeeze. Winding the window down Akabusi tossed the toss in front of the Nova. Hitting the jizz pool, it veered wildly off the road exploding into a ball of flame as it hit a tree. Super Nova, thought Akabusi, and laughed so hard he nearly shat.

By the time that Busi had managed to find a disabled parking space (it was a matter of principle in case Tanni Grey-Thompson wanted to use it), his mind was clouding over with clunge-lust. Entering Millets with all the force of an Andy McNabb anecdote, he looked about greedily for his prey. Sure enough, sorting through mangled tent pegs, there she was. Ever since she allowed Hayden Christensen to penetrate her on the set of the last Star Wars film she had reverted to a state of child-like simplicity.

"Peg friend, peg friend, peg friend", she repeated ceaselessly.

Busi thought about inviting her to make friends with his misshapen peg, but decided that was a bit coarse, and instead unzipped her lightweight anorak to reveal a pair of small, but perfectly formed bristols.

Looking up longingly at Busi, Portman enquired softly, "Leon?"

This was more than Busi could take and he'd soon removed her waterproof trousers and negotiated himself into her gloriously tight clunge. Busi was amazed as his black candle delved further into her darkness. It was like a bloody tardis down there he thought with glee. Busi was so far up to his hilt that it was only a matter of hours before he was on his rampant, volcanic, waxy vinegars. He exploded in a combination of man cream and awoogahs that rocked the foundations of the building with more force than a Brian Blessed handshake.

Having removed his now shrinking monster from the field of combat, Busi looked down at the cum-ridden mess of clunge, anorak and tent pegs.

"Leon?", Portman whimpered, more broken than a promise from Colin Jackson that he wouldn't bum you.

Akabusi lent over what was left of this jizz-drenched, hollywood starlet, whispered "Awoogah" in her ear, and patted her on the fanny.

The End.

Akabusi sat in the back of his Corsa watching Loose Women on his black and white portable. He hadn't seen this many mouthy c***ts since he fucked all of B*Witched at Ainsley Harriot's barbeque in Staines. That had ended in bloodshed and he knew if he watched another minute of this menstrual backwash he would have to take a life.

It was piping hot in the motor, Kriss never opened the windows and the air con was like a war veteran with emphysema trying to blow out a dropped John Player Special. Busi was wearing his spring wardrobe - crushed tan linen dungarees which were more breezy than a French cheese shop. The air was creeping in around his sleeping genitalia and tickling his taut black curlies like a favourite uncle at a niece's birthday party.

Akabusi turned the telly off, he was depressed. That morning he had given a motivational speech to a large group of deaf young achievers in Stevenage and he spent an hour pumping his fist and mouthing "Awooga". Which wasn't far removed from his usual routine. Kriss had wondered what these fuckers would achieve anyway other than playing the xylophone really fast and signing Open University programmes about ants. When they didn't clap, Busi had stormed out without even flashing his chocolate donger. He'd stuck a fat index at them. It was the only language they understood.

To cap it all he looked down on his weeping dark colossus and realized it hadn't supped at the frothing fountain of a ladies clunge for over two days. His fat balls were more full of tadpoles than the Blue Peter pond after Peter Duncan dared to have a wank into it. He needed to unsheath his meat drill bit and screw something into a wall soon or he feared a bigger cum explosion since Paris Hilton made herself sick before lunch.

He got out of the car as a bucket full of crumbs from the ten Greggs Steak Packs he devoured quicker than the North Sea eats oil rig workers dropped to the ground. He looked around at all the other cars parked up at The Priory and laughed a deep and dark laugh that set off a few alarms. When you had a plonker like Busi's you didn't need a Hummer to get pussy, pussy came to you - in your '91 Vauxhall Corsa.

He was at The Priory to see poor old John Regis whose OCD had gone ballistic since he was turned down for a part in the sequel to the Greek fight flick 300. 301 was a perfect project for Regis and his rampant OCD would have been helped exactly 3021 times more than the cocktail of drugs he swallowed every morning.

€œThis is Regggggggggggggggiss" was the last thing Akabusi heard as Regis was carted off in The Priory's white Escalade ambulance outside Kriss's £127,983 mansion in Luton. If Roger Black had been there then maybe they could have saved the huged chested blubbering fool but Black was in Tehran about to poison that President Inmydinnerjacket or whatever that guy who looked like a minicab driver in a £10 Spastic Society suit was fucking called. It had meant cancelling four JJB Sports opening events and one signing at a Maplins in Letchworth but work was work.

Akabusi strolled into the clinic, his midnight pussy piercer slapping against his toned inner thighs like Collymore on Jonsson. The Armani clad nurses stopped administering placebos to cigarello thin models to watch as Busi headed for the John Paul Getty ward with the confidence of a man with a gold medal and a brown wheelie bin in his dungs. The attention sent a spark down his body and his meat twitched to a semi and he knew that if he had a look it would now be the size of two kingsize Mars bars wrapped together with fat veins.

He let slip the confines of his linen dungs and let the imported air of the clinic cling to his toned onyx chassis to Ciccone to black babies. Regis was sitting at the window of his oak panelled room wearing a Maria Grachvogel clincal gown and was busy counting the reality stars ghost writing their autobiographies in the grounds. "97, 98..." wept Regis as he heard the unmistakable sound of flesh against flesh that meant Busi was in the room. They embraced. They weren't sh*t pushers or anything but the touch of Olympian on Olympian seemed to cheer up the vacant Regis.

"What the fuck have they got you on, John?" roared Kriss with all the power of a Spartan attacking a Ginsters concession. "Karl Malden, Kriss. Fuck knows" said Regis as he secretly counted the bristles of Akabusi's immaculate tache. "Get the fuck out of here, Mr Akabumbum" said a voice from behind the boys which was a smooth as a babies arse but without the skid marks. Akabusi was almost at full lob as he turned to spy a nurse clad in a tight white tunic that Busi was sure concealed a pair of bristols so epic that Cecil B Demille made her bras.

If Kriss's pussy senses were right and they always fucking were he suspected that joining those tits was a clunge as wet as a Norwegian work experience chap. Busi knew at that precise moment he had to get Regis out of this soup factory but he also knew that he had to bash this nurse's doors in like coppers visiting a Rasta temple. Before this thought even left his brain to tell his balls the nurse had ripped the tunic from her hard body and let the buttons fly across the ward.

The combatants faced each other, Akabusi looking like a brown capital T on it's hind legs and her like a naked woman with nice tits. Akabusi pounced on her like a fat person devouring a buffet of obesity genes and within seconds he was sliding the length and breadth into a glistening hole that had previously been as unable to open as a bacon sarnie stall at Golders Green tube station.

As she reverse cowgirled him he was faced with a tight little arse hole that looked like an 80 year old whistling. Busi called to Regis to come over and stick his pinky up it. Struggling with his OCD, John finally couldn't resist and slipped it up to his Liz Duke signet. This was progress. And it made the nurse yelp like a dog being kicked.

Within hours Akabusi was on his violent vinegars and let fly with a gush that looked like a dam letting off pressure. The nurse slid all over the floor looking like she had just had union with Slimer. "Pack your Transformers rucksack Regis. We're fucking out of here" cried Akabusi as he rolled up his brown St Bernard cock and popped on his linen dungs. Busi wanted to get to a party near Durham he'd heard of on Myspace, it was called "House Rape" or something and he knew that sounded quality.

Akabusi looked down on the twisted pile of dying giant sperm, matted blonde hair, Prozac pies and a clunge so wasted it should be in The Priory, he bent down, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End

Akabusi had had a sh*t day. He'd spent the morning with his accountant Harvey Goldenblum and to put it bluntly he was f**ked. He had made some very bad investments in the last tax year - a bus tour for Tourettes sufferers to the Vatican had ended in an international situation and his collection of dildos modelled on his own gigantic black cock had gone into raw materials problems.

His plans to put on a production of Towering Inferno on Ice with Colin Jackson in the lead role had been dashed. Two people drowned in rehearsals and the family were after him for compo.

After a runw*nk in the park he decided to go to the zoo. He loved the zoo, it was full of animals throwing their own sh*t and spunk around. It reminded him of home.

He wandered around the near empty zoo, his denim dungerees gently rubbing up against his slick, toned jet black skin and making his veiny python twitch like Ali at an Olympic opening ceremony.

He bypassed the chimps, they disgusted him and he made his way to the elephant enclosure. When he got there he spied that there were no punters around so let slip his dungerees and exposed his naked skin to the cool air of this January afternoon. As he stood there looking like a chocolate tripod, an observer may have mistaken this figure for a baby elephant. With two legs. And who was black.

As per usual, he hopped over the railings, briefly feeling the barb wire scrape his heavy ball sack like nails down a blackboard. As he landed he heard a voice "Oi, you. Get the f**k out of the elephant enclosure, you f**ker".

Akabusi had only been caught at the zoo once before when he had sat in the reptile area and had several unsuspecting nuns stroke his throbbing colossus. As he turned he saw a female games keeper, her coarse khaki shirt and shorts clearly concealing epic bristols and he hoped at least one usable hole.

"Oh, it's you, Kriss" she said in a voice as smoky as Roy Castle's lungs. As she told him off, Akabusi knew she was looking at his pumped torso and his increasingly engorged black magic. He knew also that she was becoming more turned on and wet than a homosexual at a Barrymore pool party.

"You better put that away" she said pointing her rake at his cock. "It's making Mumbles the elephant jealous".

Within a split second he ripped open her khaki shirt to expose two huge tits that were so hard and muscular you could put them on a nightclub door and there would be no trouble. "Why don't I hide 'this' up your clunge!" roared Akabusi like a black panther with his nuts caught in a slammed Tom Clancy novel.

The zookeeper let slip her shorts letting the air attend to a pussy so hairy it looked like a mammoth with labia for legs. Peeping out from the bush was a clitorus so big and meaty it wouldn't have looked out of place hanging on a hook in Smithfields. Akabusi hadn't seen anything like it since he'd been "surprised sexed" by Judy Oakes.

Within seconds his ebony trunk became more full of blood and muscle than the aftershow at Britain’s Strongest Man.

Akabusi took a deep breath and plunged into her hole like Albanians through the Chunnel. Her skin was so rough it was like having angry sex with a sander going at full pelt, but Akabusi loved it. He loved it rough. And this was rough.

Around the zoo animals scurried for cover, some even choosing to leave and join the circus with Jeremy Beadle, as Akabusi and the zookeeper’s cries rocked the trees and cages like a bunch of Jews at an adulterer trial.

Within a matter of hours it was all over, the zookeeper’s body lying strewn on the straw, a pile of spunk, hair, muscle and animal feed. The zookeeper mustered her last remnant of strength and rolled up her clit and crawled away from Akabusi.

Akabusi bounded to his feet, his spirits enlivened by this classic intercourse. “f**k the tax man!” he thought. If he wanted to fund another musical based on the life of Daley Thompson he f**king would. He wrestled his seeping cock back into place as he pulled his favourite dungarees on. He caught up with the escaping keeper by following her trail of clunge suds and bent down and whispered “Awooga” in her ear and patted her on her fanny.

The End.

Akabusi tightened his black tie around his bare neck as he wiped down the splashback from 3 Muller Rices he'd demolished from his jet black dungerees. He stood in front of the mirror and examined himself. He felt so sexy he was sure that it was only a matter of time before Lynx named a spray after him. Ebony? Clunge buster? Fanny Patt? Or just simply Akabusi. He made a note in his Psion to call his manager when he got back.

Kriss heard John Regis downstairs checking all of the window locks and counting the pixels on Akabusi's new 14" plasma. The OCD had gotten pretty bad after the "incident" and to help daft Regis through it Akabusi had bought him the first of the "Build your own Bismarck" collection. Only the first one mind, the rest were too expensive. This had kept Regis occupied for about a minute before he'd crushed the fourth rear engine with his mighty hands and eaten it. War is hell.

Akabusi jogged down the stairs of his £126,970 mansion, cleaned up Regis' face with a wet wipe and they left the house and waited for Roger Black to pick them up in his Corsa.

Akabusi could feel the fresh air of the cul de sac racing around the base of his sleeping sliver of pork and encircling his giant hanging balls like dipping a hot hot dog and two cum filled scotch eggs into a pint of Stella. He really wanted to let slip the confines of his dungs and let his hymen hurter find a wet place to live. But in the distance he could see Black cutting corners like the architect in the Towering Inferno. It was time to hit this funeral harder than Boycott on Moore.

There was an awkward silence in the motor on the way. Black had been f**king decent enough to provide sausage rolls, mini kievs, little pizzas, cherryade Panda Pop and a pack of bourbons for the 5 minute journey. Akabusi hated funerals, they made his angry cock wilt and retreat within his bristling ebony frame and it could often only be coaxed out by the prospect of surprise sex or w*nking on religious iconography. What made this funeral even harder was he hated the c**t so much.

Richard Blackwood had been killed during Operation Trident last week in Clapham. The Operation had been introduced several years ago to murder Blackwood with a piece of gladiatorial weaponary after Richard claimed he was ready for a comeback. Attmepts with iaculum and manicae in various parts of South London has proved fruitless until an increasingly unhinged Derek Redmond had cornered Blackwood in a "Cummin' Up" kebab house with a trident and skewered the b*stard until he was deadened. Redmond was likely to serve the rest of his life in a maximum security prison or be made a Mayor of London - it was that close.

As the rain started pelting off the collection of sportsmen, minor celebrities and Richard Blackwood fan at graveside, Akabusi could feel a stirring within his dark loins that felt like the beginnings of a beautiful and fulfilling erection. His sagging testes tightened like two fists being formed by a market trader on his one night out. Akabusi was confused. Although it was Richard Blackwood's funeral, people were still pretty depressed and there was certainly no pussy worth abusing. Or was there?

No. Turned out there wasn't. He'd spotted June Sarpong MBE leaving the funeral just before Vaz Blackwood (no relation) stepped up to rap a eulogy. She was a c**t of the highest order - Akabusi had described her as a black bin bag stretched over a skeleton on his blog - but he would have loved to slip his meat python down her throat and then pull his own cock out of her sealed up arsehole. Maybe at the TV Quick Awards.

As Kriss, Roger and John kicked dirt onto the coffin the crowds dispersed and the pimped out Corsas started collecting the guests to bring them to the afterparty at the ice rink in Streatham. Akabusi peeled off from the gang and returned to the grave. He was busting for a crap and he knew this was a great opportunity to finish the day.

Before he positioned his big toned arse over the edge of Blackwood's grave he let the shackles of his funeneral dungereess slip and exposed his naked onyx chassis to the dead people who lay all around. He felt like a Titan - more vital and alive than anyone around. Who were all dead. As he felt the turtle rising he roared with a laugh so loud, dark and evil corpses turned in their graves ever so slightly.

As his giant man size plop hit the walnut casket, the impact smashed the coffin to pieces. As Akabusi check wiped he looked down at the twisted form of Richard Blackwood entwined with excrement, splintered wood and copies of his "single" which he had demamded be buried with him - "for the ferryman, man". Akabusi was so aroused his plonker filled with so much powerful, dangerous liquid he knew what it was to be George Best's liver. The erection was so intense it had drawn all the colour and life out of his body so he looked like Mr Bean impaled on fresh lumber.

"Mr Abbakumi, what the f**k are you doing sh*tting onto the coffin of my deadened cousin?" said a voice from behind him. The accent was as rich and as false as Lady Madonna of Gloucestershire. As Busi turned slowly around his Malteser eyes rested on the skeletal form of supermodel and nut job Naomi Campbell. Akabusi knew that this was about to become the biggest black on black crime he'd ever witnessed.

He knew that beneath the impeccable styling, giant sunglasses and lady like demeanor were a pair of cracking black bristols and a clunge as filthy, dangerous and inviting as an inner city canal. Akasbui wanted to throw his shopping trolley of love into her as quickly as humanely possible. And it seemed Campbell agreed as before he could tear the Gucci from her back, Naomi had a PA carefully remove her garments and fold them up.

Akabusi plunged into her like a caretaker into a bombing campaign. It wasn't long before he was so far into the mouthy bitch that his balls slipped into her leg cavities. His hands were all over her and the friction caused by these two jet black specimums would surely burn this graveyard to the ground.

Within hours Busi was on his big vinegars and pulled out a diamond encrusted mobile phone which he repeatedly hit Campbell around the head whilst he came so hard he thought he was in a pussy car wash. "See how you like it, you jumped up f**king clothes horse" Kriss roared as Naomi's PA returned with twelve mochas and a Wispa bar with all the bubbles taken out for Campbell.

"Run free you stupid c**t" shouted Kriss to the PA as he pulled out his Andre cock out of the shattered floppy torso and slipped his dungs on. He better get to that after party before Regis sunk his Bismarck into the punch.

He looked down on the twisted pile of giant spermazota, magazine covers, shiny tits, a copy of her "novel" swan and clunge suds, bent over and whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

Akabusi sat in his Vauxhall Corsa eating a corn beef and horseradish bloomer from Greggs with all the gusto of an Ethiopian at a Harvester salad bar. He looked out the dirty window at some pigeons fighting and f**king in the strong beams of the low winter sun. He roared with a laugh as loud, dark and hollow as a Lenny Henry comeback tour. What did these animals know of the art of f**king love making?

The thought sent a quiver down Akabusi's ebony frame to his purring pussy pounder. It hadn't tasted the sweet suds of a clunge for at least eight hours and it was getting restless and hungry. Kriss considered inducing a wet day dream - or a "lunchtime geyser" as Geoff Capes had once called it. But no. His throbbing hulk of brown greasy gristle needed kneeding and it had to be from the wettest, reddest lips since Jilly Goolden on a tour of the Bordeaux region.

And anyway, John Regis was sitting in the back of the Corsa nursing a Cheese and Onion pastie and feverishly counting the rain drops on the window. Since the Manchester Casino debacle Regis's OCD had become 456 times worse. Akabusi and Black had tried to f**k the casino over with Regis counting cards but the daft window slurper had gone nuts and pushed the table over and flopped his monster * in the face of the croupier. Regis insisted there were 39 steps out of the casino but the boy's feet barely touched the ground.

To cheer himself up Akabusi had entered a Pro Celebrity Golf Tournament at Wentworth and as he licked his big brown finger and dabbed the crumbs from his tweed dungerees he looked out on the assembled Z list clebs at the first tee. He knew he was going to get some hole today and he prayed to his Nigerian gods that it was deep and didn't have a flag in it. Yet.

Akabusi wiped Regis down with a wet wipe and headed over to registration. In the distance he spotted that c**t Tanni Grey Thompson rolling over to the first tee with her electronic caddy in tow - it looked like a convoy of sh*t Transformers. Akabusi growled and snarled like an Muslim's belly on the penultimate day of Ramadam. If he was playing against her he was sure he would lose his considerable rag and bury her up to her head in a bunker. He tried to remain calm as he was introduced to his caddy.

Clunge Sunesson was the smoking hot daughter of **, Faldo's old stick holder, and Akabusi's interest in this good walk spoilt was heightened when his greedy eyes focused on the svelte Swedish sexpot that stood before him polishing his wood. The cool air of the early morning breeze slide into his dungerees like Sidney Cooke into a nephew's bunk and licked at his black short and curlys like lesbians at the annual * divers stamp collectors blow out. He wanted to sink his rapidly engorging brown Mizuno into her fairway as soon as. But he had a game to play and some spastics to buy a bus for or some sh*t like that.

"What's your handicap Abakumi?" hurled Bruce Forsyth as he passed by in his golf buggy which doubled as a hearse. "By big *, you old c**t" roared Kriss with a sharpness and panache not seen since that bender Wilde complained about the wallpaper. Akabusi knew he had a powerful swing but knew more often than not his balls ended up in the rough. She worked in the clubhouse on Saturdays.

As was Akabusi's custom he let the brass buckles of his tweed dungerees loose and felt the coarse fabric rush past his ebony carcass like a rocket launch. All the celebs knew the score with Kriss and no one said a f**king word as he stood at the first tee looking like a large chocolate "K". Akabusi always played erect- it improved his game and left him ever ready to plunge his black post box into a fan or PR girl. As he shifted his giant onyx rugby balls and pulled his bat or club or whatever the f**k it was called the CTU tone of his mobile started ringing.

Clunge picked up the huge bloody thing and the battery attached and slung it over to Akabusi. It was Derek Redmond. They hated Redmond. Him, Blackie and poor Regis had never forgiven him for plonking Suzanne Davies and not letting them watch and he had a small willy so he never really fit in. As Akabusi held up the whole tournament with his call viewers could see his veiny colussas begin to fall to the ground like Beckett in the cathedral. Apparently Redmond had been sending parcel bombs to various offices across the country. He'd got a parking ticket whilst he was dogging with Collymore and McFadden in Penge and it had driven him nuts. And he had a small willy.

Deflated, Akabusi told Redmond that the lads would be over to his £117,560 mansion near Watford as soon as the tournament was over. They'd have to kill him of course. He knew too much. But at least the madness would be over and the good people of the parking and traffic enforcement community could sleep easy. Black liked murder and killing so he would garoutte the micro cocked loon whilst he poured the others a Kestrel.

Clunge Sunesson came over and told him the tourny was off. Darren Clarke had watelogged the second hole with his tears and automatically both won the tournament and managed to f**k loads of mothering birds. Akabusi wished he had a dead wife. Oh well, he thought as his attention returned to Clunge.

He knew beneath the pink Pringle top and flourescent tabard lay a pair of epic blonde bristols with all the promise and weight of Frank Lampard as a teenager. And as sure as Regis was mad as a closed box of c**ts, Akabusi knew that tucked into those khaki shorts was a pussy as hairless and had a powerful grip as a Professor Xavier action figure. He felt the blood rush into his brown campanile quicker than a train delay at the hint of snow.

He picked up Clunge and threw over his shoulder and headed to the tranquility of the nearest bunker. He torn her gear off and flung her into the bunker. She lay helpless in the sand like an unturned beetle - with a pair of itty bitty tits and a ** as wet as a Zeebrugge purser. He plunged into her like a Johnny Vegas dive bombing a kiddie's pool and before long he was up to his crackers in this blonde spunk wagon.

Within hours he was approaching his vinegars and let out a roar of pain, pleasure and passion as he let fly such a stream of hot man scum over her battered torso that people in the next town thought someone had struck white oil. He had.

As he strapped his dying dong to his toned calves and slipped on his tweed dungs he looked over to the Corsa. Regis was all excited - there were 8796 rain drops on the rear window and couldn't wait to tell Redmond. Black was at the boot loading up some tools and cheese wire. This was going to get messy.

He looked down on the shagpile of giant spermazota, matted Scandic hair, Slazenger Number 1s and a Clunge that looked like a regurgitated steak, bent down, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.

The sun shone down on Akabuski's shiny chocolate head which glistened in the mid day sun like the tin foil wrapper of a milky bar. He was in the front garden of his two bedroom mansion and was sitting wearing his summer short style dungarees which showed off his mighty jaguar which would moisten any clunge to biblical vengeance proportions, perhaps an ark would be needed. Fortunately, Akabusi could provide.

His Argos plastic garden furniture was heating up and it began to burn his mighty oak tree like legs. He stifled an awooga and decided that he needed a glass of Coke Zero (he was hoping for a sponsership deal and drunk it at any opportunity he could.)

He walked to his Kitchen/dining room and from the window he suddenly smelt the sweet aroma of clunge. An aroma he knew only too well. It hit him fast and suddenly like a junkie waiting outside the post office for a pensioner on a monday morning. Like the junkie, Kriss also had an addiction. An addiction for the sweet sweet act of love making. Or as he called it. "Munching the branston"

The aroma was sending him mad and his pulsating warrior was almost bursting through the summer dungarees so he slipped them off and he stood there in all his glory like Michaelangelo's David smeared in chocolate with a much larger pocket rocket. He was in a frenzy now and was ready to track down that clunge and attack it like a bully attacking the boy with the stutter in the playground.

He burst out of the door of his mansion and surveyed from left to right. The sun on his balls felt good to him. It reminded him of the time him and Michael Hutchence had gone to a brothel and had some kinky match sex with cheap whores. All of which are now in wheel chairs, like all of Kriss' lovers. It was then that he spotted where that sweet aroma was coming from. It was ex blind date host Cilla Black. She was out walking her dog and saying Chuck to anybody would listen. Kriss normally didn't like old Vag but this smelt too good to turn down.

He bellowed over to her 'surprise surprise' You see, he also has a razor sharp wit. And at this he plunged into cilla like a plane into the world trade center. His mighty staff was up her BHS two piece beige suit and her old ginger saggy clunge was tightening around his mighty penis which looked like Al Jolson but infact several feet bigger than the singer.

In mere hours it was all over. He looked down at Cilla who looked like she had just been attacked by a gaggle of angry geese who had an affection for spitting. His famous Akabusi smile appeared on his face and he said. "Are you still breathing?" There was no answer. Barely holding back his laughter he said "Maybe i should ask our Graham" He chuckled so loud and erotically that a 4 year old who was playing near him actually hit puberty right then. She pointed towards her playhouse and Akabusi grinned.

Before heading off too the playhouse he leant over Cilla. And gently whispered, "awooga" in her man juice covered ear. And patted her on the fanny. Today had been a good day for Kriss Akabusi.

The End.

It was quarter to ten in the morning and the rumble of Kriss Akabusi's Corsa tickled his arse in a way that made him grin a grin he would only grin if Fash sent him a humourous text, which he incedentally he hadn't done for ages. He heard a ring. It was his top of the range pay as you go nokia 3210 with a tas mania facia. He thought it might be Fash with an amusing text but instead it was a text from his agent saying that he better get over to Itv studios as fast as possible because Itv where very interested in getting a black presented to front the new series of Kids say the funniest things. Busi despised children; his own where in the boot of his corsa behind his over sized jock strap as he sat there. He realised then why he hadn't heard from Fash or Linford Christie in a while. They had been tipped off about the gig. And even though Busi hated kids he had come accustomed to a certain lifestyle. A one bedroom luxury mansion with it's own lock up doesn't come cheap and Busi was already begining to feel that his motovational speech's weren't packing quite the same punch they once did. And so with this is mind he headed off to itv with all the speed of Stan Collymore after the window of his motor had just been tapped at asda car park.

Driving down the motorway reaching the corsas top speed of 85 miles an hour Busi suddenly became very worried. His smart Dungs where in the wash and he was only wearing his summer ones and he had a big cornetto stain on the front of it. It was then he made a decision. To do it in all his glory standing proud like a midgets coat hook. But he had a trick up his sleeve. Busi, having gone to brighton with the lads the week before had awoken with a prince albert penil piercing. He didn't really rate it much and so opted not to wear jewlerry in it. He was out to impress today though and luckily for him a group of local spastics got him a Liz Duke diamonte hoop for motivating them in the only way he knew how; with a toothy grin an awooga and a slip of the dungs. He took one hand off the steering wheel and reached into the glove box where he took out the ring. As he awkwardly attatched it to his goliath plonker making it resemble mister t after a weight watchers diet. Disaster struck. A siren sounded and Busi new he was rumbled for speeding. He already had a few points on his license and couldn't risk a suspension. He had a JJB to open in reading next monday and he couldn't miss that. He would need to talk his way out of this one. He looked in the rear view window and blood filled his plonker faster than a black man leaving a bnp fancy dress party. It was a saucy little red head police woman. Busi liked a woman in uniform, but he knew that uniform wouldn't be on for very long and as she ordered him to roll down the window he knew exactly what was about to happen.

The officer took one look at his decorated staff of power and lunged through the window. Busi in one foul swoop ripped off the uniform ordering her to keep her helmet on. Why? He just felt like it. He threw her to the back seat and in no time at all the windows where steaming up. Onlookers could merely see a corsa shaking like it's never shook before and could only here the muffled whimpers of two very scared children and the mighty grunts of a man doing what he does best.

Within hours he was ready to unleash his mighty load of man chicken. And his target was in sight. The helmet clad head of P.C Perfect. He blew his load and opened up the back door letting her out. He looked at his watch. Realising he had no chance of getting to itv now. He didn't care though. Let Fash get the gig. Nothing could spoil his mood now. He leant out the front door and he said, "I don't suppose you'll be needing my license and registration." He let out a mighty laugh and bent down and said awooga softly into her seamen covered helmet. Patted her on the fanny and went to catch Greggs before it closed

Akabusi hated trains. They made his balls ache. And they were about the only land based thing he had ever seen that was as long, hard and powerful as his dribbling beef ionic. He looked out the steamed up window at the blurry countryside as the vibrations of the journey went right up his toned onyx legs up to the recently weaved bush covering his monstrous sud carriers.

Before long Busi's meat and two f**king huge veg looked like Kevin Keegan impaled by a giant bum cigar and for a brief moment he passed out as every drop of his Nigerian blue blood shuffled into his genitalia quicker than Gray Thompson on black ice. It would be a shame to waste this god given erection but there was a gang of snotty kids in the same carriage so he got poor OCD riddled John Regis to pinch the end.

Two hours later the beast had been tamed and Akabusi went back to his well thumbed copy of his biography "f**k Me, That Kid Can Run" by Michael Crick. Regis continued playing iShylock on his portable Wii and so far had collected £4763 in rent and just over a pound of flesh or 0.498 kilogrammes to be exact. Which Regis always was. It was just a shame that the carriage had so many germs. Or 8,763,229 to be exact. Regis would scrub his shovel like hands until they bled tonight.

Roger Black wasn't on the train. In fact Busi hadn't seen Blackie for a few days since he had gone up to Cheshire to collect some gambling debts from the Katonas. What a pair of tits! Her and her husband had been. You borrow from Busi you will get burned and Black gets the Vig by any means necessary.

Busi put down his biography after he had read about the infamous Cirque de Soleil incident from 98. Busi liked circuses or circi as much as the f**king next man but he hadn't paid 200 nicker to see some frog in a leo tarding around to pan pipe moods. A circus "should include cruelty to animals, French fellas farting onto talcum powder and clowns dressed as Chris Langham". Good times. Good times.

Krisstopher wiped down the window. They were here. Hogsmeade was a f**king dump. Full of ropey old brass flashing grannies that looked like Gordon Ramsey's chin and Albanians selling shrooms and day trips. Busi laughed as he recalled the time he made Regis drop acid. It had gone right through his Gola trainer and the little bleeder had screamed louder than Hagrid bumming Blessed.

Busi was in town to deliver a motivational speech to some poxy students in their final year of the school up on the hill. A technical college or something, Busi didn't give two magic sh*ts. He was getting ten K for this and all the pussy he could eat. It would have taken 28 JJB openings and 2 Maplin's closures to make that kind of cash and that made Busi harder than a 10 year old gyppo riding on the back of a waltzer.

As Busi and Regis waited for the carriages up to the college they saw a queue of weirdos waiting outside the Hogsmeade Bookshop for the next Rofl Lundgren Sex Story. f**king idiots. Busi knew what happened. It always ended the same way. Clunge carnage.

Turned out the school was a bit huge. And full of "special" children. Not window slurpers or self harmers but magicians and elf harmers. It was like a soup with magic croutons. And owls. Apparently the big man on campus was called Billy Bunter or Barry Norman or something. But Busi was here now and he would give the little f**ker a run for his money. He was going to enjoy his time at Hogtarts.

As he walked onto the stage for his 89 second motivational he felt the cool air of "that what should not really be talked about much" - sex - slip into his Gryffindor dungs and circle his massive hymen hurta and hairy snitches like spirits around Derek Acorah. Mainly gin. He looked down on the 17 year olds and could sense that most of the birds and a few of the owls wanted a piece of the Busi sex pie. And it was just about legal.

There was a ginger tard winking at him up front. Kriss was glad the kid from Mask had lost weight. His mum Cher would be pleased. Next to him was berty big bollocks or Terry Grotbags. He really didn't care what the squeaky little f**ker was called. He just knew he had a much bigger penis and that is what mattered to men. And Busi. As was Busi's wont he let slip his dungs at the climax of the speech and let his slythering pranny pounder fall to the heavy stone floor like their old headmaster - Professor McClusky. He stood there like a chocolate centaur standing on his hind legs about to enter Desert Orchid. Dead or alive.

"Enormous erectionanus!" shouted a voice from the back of the hall. Busi's instantly became harder than blood diamonds and just as shiny. He filled the room with a gigantic meat chimney that Fred Dibnah would have had trouble blowing up. Especially as he was brown bread. A small figure stepped forward.

Hermoine Granger was definitely 18. Maybe even 17. But she was definitely 18. And she was smokin hot magma formed into the shape of a six former. Busi knew beneath that tight jumper was a pair of bristols like two O2 Arenas fighting and a clunge tighter than two jocks on an early morning Easyjet flight to Palma. Busi's offal wand quivered as he was drawn towards Granger, helmet first.

And boy did Busi have helmet thirst. His japs was gasping like Hiroshima residents for eye drops. "Clothus flingoffus" roared Busi as he landed near Hermoine. And they did. She stood there like a beautiful female greyhound with a tits like philosopher's stones and areolae as bumpy and as hot as a landing at Sao Paulo.

He dug in. And lept on her like chocolate leaping frogs. His hands were all over her like Cerberus on three scouse kids. She wasn't shy and Billy Rotter looked over at Krisstopher with a wink. She'd been around the school more times than nits. Within hours Busi was on his vigorous vinegars and he let fly with such a gush of nad sauce that Voldermort was knocked clean out and all the kids started laying into him. He was a f**king dead man.

Roger Black appeared out of nowhere in a flying Corsa. Turns out he was Sirrus's younger brother and sh*t. Regis piled in. Busi rolled up his seven volume saga and slipped on his sodden dungs. He always knew how this would end.

Krisstopher Malcolm Akabusi looked down on the twisted pile of giant spunk bubbles, long matted hair, smashed in back doors, Dark Arts and a clunge wetter than a plunge pool on the Titantic, knelt down onto his powerful black magic knee, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.

Busi had had enough. His agent, Harvey Goldenblum, was a downpour in a shower of shites. He had only opened eighteen JJBs and one fucking Maplins last week. The £127,987 one bedroom mansion in Luton didn't clean itself. How was he meant to keep Regis full of pills and Black full of murderous rage on these buttons that Harvey was tossing his way? Busi had no idea. That's why he had an accountant. But his accountant was Harvey Goldenblum.

He looked around at the other black men sitting in the green room sipping jasmine tea and thumbing Stanivslaski. His big meeting with Harvey last week had been a mess. They should never had met in Chariots Spa. But you couldn't get the giant front wheel out of there. Krisstopher had laid it on the line. He wanted more acting work. The DVD of "Lotions 13" had been shifting units all over the shop. The commentary by poor old OCD prone John Regis had become a classic and a standard text for all psychologists. The time was right for Busi to have his own show. A cop show. A cookery show. Any kind of fucking show.

So here he was. In the green room of the Letchworth Police Station. About to "appear" in a line up for a suspected rapist in the area. As he applied his rouge and ran over his lines with Adrian Lester he thought of Harvey's garbled words as two Brazilian boys had placed their copas in Goldenblum's capana. "If you want to be a black actor you have to do rep. Police line ups. Crimewatch. The Bill. Maybe a Trial and Retribution. Oh God, that's good." Busi wanted to be the black Bond. The chocolate Columbo. The onyx Oprah. But he needed walnut effect flooring. A job is a job.

Busi was useless though. About as useless as a fanny on Anne Widdicombe. He kept fluffing his lines. And pumping his fist in the line up. And shouting Justin Fashanu's catchphrase "Awooga". It was clear he wasn't the rapist. Or the granny murderer. He was just a very loud ex sportsman with a taste for clunge custard and monstrous trouser cobra. Two cases had been thrown out of court in the last hour. No one wanted Krisstopher Malcolm Akabusi to graduate to reconstructions on Crimewatch more than the Thames Valley Police. Except maybe Busi himself.

Chief Inspector John Stalker took Busi aside after the rapist lineup. Kriss had made sure that the woman had fingered Adrian Lester instead of the real fella. One less Ophello on the Crimewatch market.

Stalker was a tough man. When he wasn't fitting up Irish people for playing with cards and making bombs he was fitting electric awnings. But everyone in the force knew that Drummer, his ever present lab, was the brains of the outfit and Busi wanted to speak to the monkey not the organ grinder. Or the monkey man. Or the grinder man. He was confused. He just wanted to speak to someone who knew what he was talking about.

Drummer motioned for Busi to take a seat in his walnut effect office. He offered a Cuban. But Kriss wasn't here to fuck a Latino. Or was he? Drummer used his hind leg to itch his ear whilst he laid it out for Busi. He couldn't do line ups anymore. He was a worse black actor than the former head of the UN - Bernie Mac. But he had a special job for him. Down in the remand cells.

Amy Winehouse was a fucking godawful mess. He'd seen more meat on a burnt chip. She had a nose that you break ice with, a hairdo that looked like something a giant cat would hock up on the duvet and teeth like pikey paving. Busi knocked on the glass wall that separated her from him. She stirred.

Now Busi liked pussy as much as the next man. As long as the next man was George Best or Julio Ingelellisas. But this bag of bones was beyond the pale. But Regis needed medication. Medication. Medication was all he needed. He felt the hot blood rush into his stone cold meat parcel. He was ready.

He knew that beneath the tatty LBD was a clunge as uninviting as a HSBC in Chandlers Ford and a pair of tits as lifeless as Samanda. It began to speak. "A showbiz reporter once came to interview me. I ate his liver with some brown. And a can of Tennants. SHShsususushhshs". Krisstopher felt vomit form in the back of his throat but he sucked it up.

Busi let slip his acting dungs and the fetid air of the cells swilled around his giant cocoa rugby balls like mouth wash in an alcos gob. His diamond cutter pierced the glass and he entered the cell. Drummer ran in and started pulling at Winehouse's dress. Soon they were both naked. Busi like a proud Nubian warlord and Amy like Steptoe with tattoos.

Akabusi leapt on her like the Daily Express on a new Diana theory. Busi packed more into her clunge than a Renault McCann boot and was leaving as much DNA. To her credit her pussy was juicier than Kate's diary and soon they were rocking it up against the cold stone.

Within hours Busi was on his virulent vinegars and let Winehouse have a mouth full of protein for the first time since Hanukkah 2003. He rolled up his Biltong pillbox and slipped on his acting duds. He tried to persuade her to go for a kebab. But she said "No, no, no." "Suit yourself you scrawny *" roared Busi with all the might of a bear not giving Brian Blessed a reacharound in the showers.

His pager bleeped. It was Harvey. He had an audition to play understudy to Adrian Lester as a rapist in Crimewatch. Work was work. Busi looked down on the sloshing pile of flipping, flapping spermazota, needles, black eyeliner, Drummer's hair and latkes, knelt down on his muscular knee, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.

Akabusi opened his front door to let his manliness sway gently in the cooling autumn breeze. As he did he was surprised and horny to find the doorstep already occupied by a pair of spectacles, two bristols whose landmass more than lived up to their namesake, and what he could only assume was a clunge dripping with goose fat.

"Awooo-"

"Let me stop you right there, Mr Akabusi," said the face he'd only just noticed beneath the spectacles. "I am here to serve you with a £756,000 sexual harassment lawsuit." The lawyer had all the sex appeal of a shaved tigress on heat whose babies had just been eaten.

As he came to grips with the situation and, inevitably, his shaft, Akabusi's world began crumbling like a leper kid on a bouncy castle. "But have you seen my fine pinstripe dungarees?" he asked hopefully.

"Let me assure you, Mr Akabusi, that I am one of the few women for whom your dungarees hold little interest," she said, eyeing his dungarees with interest.

It was then that Akabusi knew that he owned this woman in the most Joseph Fritzel of fashions. He had only to slip out of his dungarees and lay down, there and then.

The lawyeress leapt onto him, hiking up her skirts in midair, and plunged down onto his manliness like Excalibur in reverse. Somehow she manhandled his moustache in just the way he liked and he came faster than he ever had before.

Five hours later, when it was over, he pulled out and proceeded to wipe the tip of his manflesh on the legal documentation. Finally he bent down, whispered "Awooga," in her ear, and respectfully slid the rolled up documents into her still quivering fanny, giving them a fond pat home.

She stared at him like the scientific marvel he was as he closed the front door behind him. "Awooga, Mr Akabusi," she whispered, "Awooga.

Busi was cold. He was so cold he had killed two brass monkeys and wrapped their pelts around his ebony carriage leaving him all furry looking like he'd rolled around on a crusty's front room. His clunge plunger had retracted as far as it could go but it was still over a foot long and his shaved chestnuts needed to be roasting on an open fire or failing that resting on a slit arses chin.

All in all he was f**king freezing. To celebrate a good year Busi's agent Harvey Goldenblum had sent the boys to open a JJB in Lapland with a jumbo full of Make A Wish slurpers on the strict condition no tards got killed or maimed or kicked to pieces by nutty reindeers. Busi, Regis and Black had begrudgingly accepted the challenge - deaths were always a possiblity on these trips and reindeers were an unknown quantity. Black was very keen to visit the country that had given us the Lapdance and poor old OCD riddled Regis planned to count every drop of snow he could get his giant hot hands on.

The plane journey had been a nause and a half. 200 nose dribblers jumping up and down, setting off alarms, punching trolley mollys and shouting the word "bomb" continuely. Busi had put on his new iPatch and listened to the audio recording of "Rofl Lundgren's Erotic Stories for Men (and, to a lesser extent, women) History Edition" read by Brian Blessed. He noted from the cover that the book version was out in Janurary 08 and would be available from Lulu.com but he wasn't sure why he had noted that so carefully. Maybe it was spam...

The last few months had been busier than Amanda Knox's imagination. Busi had opened 28 JJBs and one Maplins in Penge, gotten married twice and divorced three times, appeared on Dragon's Den selling his new scat video "2 Guys Wassup" and skating to victory in the Nigeria version of Deal or No Deal on Ice. Regis had been in his penthouse urinating into empty bottles of Tizer and collecting the pixels on his new HD telly so his OCD was officially 2456 times better than it had been 678 hours before. Black had killed eight men. With his bare hands. So all was good in the hood for the jolly boys.

Except that Busi's fleshy hood had retracted less often the Millenium in Cardiff during winter. His veiny parnassus hadn't tasted the sweet suds of any of the five available holes on a woman and his rampant zota were backing up like Christmas Eve traffic. He was carrying so much knacker cracker spread Busi was pretty certain that he was turning white and once woke up on his walnut effect sheets wondering if he was growing one of those sperm tails. He prayed to every god in the book that he would go in up to his nuts on something in Lapdanceland or whatever the f**k it was called.

Black loved whipping huskies, Busi roared to himself with all the gusto of a turkey and sprout fart from an eighty year old relative. They were speeding through the epic white nothingness of Lap towards Santa's Grotty. A few leos had already fallen by the wayside, sliced under the blades of Regis' nasty b*stard sleigh or eaten by wild artic scouse rotts but Busi had told Harvey he never failed to come back from an ouward bound thingy without blood on his meaty cock like fingers.

Busi's sled kicked up more white dust than a leper skipping as he pulled up at Santa's joint. It was a propa big drum with a Maccers, the biggest JJB he had ever seen and a large warehouse that no one was allowed near. Ever. At all. Santa came out to meet Busi, Black and Regis as well as the handful of Tesco packers who had survived the ardous three day trek. He was a nice fellow. Smelt a little of sherry, a bit of reindeer meat and a lot of dried p*ss.

Mary Christmas showed them to their rooms and instantly Busi's plonker started twitching like an epilectic at a gabba night. Santa's missus was hotter than two volcanos wearing no factor on a a week's holiday in Sharm El Sheik. She had long blonde hair that looked like the arse p*ss of some heavenly Greek god and blue eyes that spoke a thousand words. All of them "trouble" and "pre-cum".

Busi knew that beneath the red velvety cloth and lush white ermin was a pair of epic bristols like two missing disks containing 25 million titw*nks and downstairs was a clunge tighter than Scrooge on Ryanair, booked months in advance. "Mr Akabusboi, stop looking at my arris" she purred like a cat that had just got the cream and then found it was on top of a tuna steak and that was nestling on a bed of mices cooked in catnip. Busi laughed. And at that instant he knew he'd ruin this broad before this day was done. He felt a jet of exploratory blood shoot into his resting yuletide log and his balls dropped an inch into their attack position. She'd keep.

After they unpacked and the kids had been locked up for the week Santa and his missus toke the Busi Boys on a tour of the facility. It was huge. Funded by a conglomerate of Halliburton, Mothercare, Poundland and a few other key military industrial corporations it pumped out dolls, guns and Simpsons merchandise at a rate of knots. All built by primordial dwarves and out of work Ewoks, Santa exclaimed as Mary Christmas darted Busi a look that would pull the skin back on a cock at twenty paces.

Regis was getting a bit antsy. He hadn't been able to clean his hands for the required four hours after meeting Santa and his cocktail of pills had been eaten by Donna or Blitzkrieg or wahtever the f**k those dopey c**ts were called. When he swung open the doors of the huge warehouse they all heard Santa's april squeak like a loose balloon flying across the room. The warehouse was packed with children of all colours, creeds, disabilities and nervous tics toiling away in the biggest sweatshop Busi had ever seen since he had "mistakenly" gone to GAY with Biggins and Cilla. "You nawty greedy cahnt" shouted Busi with the force of 12 angry men in a quandary as to what to buy in La Senza for Christmas. Black waisted no time in punching Santa in the mouth and blood streamed out his fat kisser into his white beard. Regis ran at him and pushed him into a big vat of boiling plastic which would later make a novelty socks for BHS. The big fat heap of dirt was toast. And now they ran the show. Black and Regis got the little ankle lickers back to work as Busi turned his attention and his cock towards Mary.

He wasted no time as he pulled the heavy garments from her back. She had tits like two Christmas puddings covered in cream and topped with a walnut effect whip. Her pussy hair was carved into the shape of a Christmas tree and her labs were wetter than a drowned canoeist in a pool in Panama. Busi rose to attention like a Daily Mail reader during the Queen's speech and his brass monkey hair dungs tore off his torso as violently as a misguided box stunt on a Noel Edmonds show. Krisstopher wanted to get his stuffing inside this tight bird and he didn't care about the giblets. She needed roasting.

He set about her and before long he was pushing her across the snow like Tanni Grey Thompson chasing a departing blue bus on black ice. "Santa's coming!" roared Busi as he got right amongst it and felt Mary gasp as their bodies smashed together like the inevitable Chritmas plane crash or earthquake. Within hours Busi was on his violent, vigorous vinegars and he let spray with such a gush of globe lube that when his grog froze he looked like black Ice Man. He looked at his giant sperm screaming in suspended animation like Hans Solo's spunk and gave them a cheeky w*nker sign. In the distance he heard an explosion from the huge sweatshop and a hot jet of fire rose into the clear black sky. Regis had f**king touched something.

Busi looked down on the slushy pile of matted blonde hairs, dead reindeer, a clunge that looked like turkey leftovers and a vicious looking brass monkey, slipped on his new red Santa dungs, bent down on his powerful Nubian knee, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

Akabusi thumped his hand on the walnut effect table. His brown hammer fist split the table and for a moment he was reminded of Ulrika Jonnsson's well thumbed clunge. This was sh*t. His rider for this gig had specifically specified specific things like 500 gram Tupperware container of Reggae Reggae Sauce mixed with blue peanut M&Ms. He could clearly see that the f**king M&Ms were f**king red and there was only 450 grammes of the f**king sauce. Promises had been made.

Busi had had a bad few weeks. Him, Regis and Black had accidently burnt down a building in Manchester after a pyrotechnics display for the opening of a new JJB Sports had gone spectacularly wrong. It would have to be the last time they let poor demented OCD riddled Regis buy pyros. Or indeed anything. In the rush to evacute two Make A Wish foundation kids had been left behind and their charred electronic wheelchairs and three British Knights trainers were all that remained. Black had "disappeared" the evidence before the fuzz and more importantly the deputy chief marketing officer for JJB Sports North arrived. They had some pretty major openings in the coming weeks.

Even more depressingly Kriss's ebony pussy plunger hadn't tasted the sweet sticky sauce of a pretty major or minor opening in a while and the grisly pulsating Kaa betwixt his toned thighs wouldn't let him f**king forget. It needed feeding or it would go elsewhere. It also needed bathing but that was another story.

As Busi keyed in his agent Harvey Goldenblum's number into his Raspberry he looked around the table at the most useless eleven c**ts since he saw West Ham play. Jury service was the last thing he needed and when the Old Bailey celebrity bookers were going to persist in serving up red M&Ms with his sauce he wanted out. And he wanted in. A pussy.

At the moment they were deliberating over some Muslim numpty who had been caught cooking up fertiliser "above the shop". Busi had been called in at the last minute to fill the gap left by Sally Gunnell who had left to perform an emergency opening of a JD Sports in Letchworth. She got all the good gigs. The Old Bailey had made him the foreman and Busi had accepted with open muscular onyx arms. Kriss soon realized this meant he didn't get a fat reducing grill or anything to cook with and he would have to "make notes".

There was only one angry man in this room and it was Krisstopher Akabusi. The other members of the crew or whatever the f**k you called it were sure that Omar Epps was going to blow up Bluewater. Busi didn't give a monkey's clunge in hell, he preferred f**king Lakeside and he was willing to bully the others into a not guilty verdict if it meant he could get off to Cape Canerval where Roger Black and Regis were holed up. This was justice, Akabusi style.

The hot air of this cracking late April day crept into the walnut effect conference room like DJ's into the Walton Hop and found it's way between Busi's polished Texas Gold black body and his fine pinstriped dungarees that Mr Raja had knocked up for him. He could feel the chocolate liono stir as the air caressed his newly shaved rugby ball size balls. All three of his genitalia knew it was summer and knew that outside in parks, Lidos and street corners were women in tight white tops and towelling shorts splashing around in the watery arc of a burst water main. Goddamn, all four of them needed kneeding.

"Right let's get this sh*t over with" roared Busi as he stood upright like a cock in a fanny shop. "This is not a quarter as exciting as the f**king Phil Spectrum trial and this f**king one isn't televised. I was made promises". The eleven ugly men and true shuffled their papers, some followed Busi's gaze out the window to the frolicking pussy in the street. Some knew his pain, some didn't have a clue about Akabusi and that was their f**king loss.

The verdict in his fist, the twelve strode through the marble hall of the Old Bailey, crims, briefs and nickers parting as justice passed by. Akabusi had requested two drummers to play him in as he entered Court One and surprisingly they were there. As they pumped out the epic drum solo from Nilsson's Jump into the Fire in perfect unison Akabusi felt like a brown Buddha, a chocolate Jesus, a black...gas. But this wasn't about him. It was about Lady Justice.

Lady Justice was the raghead's brief and Busi's slit senses were enlivened and his sperm levels were raised to Severe as she entered the court in her long black cloak, white high collar and horse hair wig. He knew that beneath the apparel of law was an epic pair of bristols so firm you could make them heads of state in North Korea and a clunge so tight it fiddled the electricity.

For over a week Kriss had been asking these guys in gowns to make him a large Mocha with a side shot of espresso but it had turned out these dudes were barristers and not baristas. The law was an ass and Akabusi wanted to part it and plunge his jet black sack attack into it. The drummers stopped and once the screams and applause stopped Busi stood. As he opened his large piano key filled mouth he caught sight of Lady Justice. She had a leg up on a desk and had her gown pulled up to her arse as she smoothed down the creases in her Agent Provocateur stockings.

Busi was instantly harder than Dave Courtney's missus' clit. But without the Liz Duke T Bar through it. The power of his engorged cock tore the pinstriped dungs from his back and he stood naked and horny. He lept over the walnut effect partition and stalked Justice like an elephant at an Indian celebration that got out of hand.

"Erection" cried the clerk of the court. "Overstained!" roared Akabusi with all the might of Andre the Giant farting into a Sennheiser. Justice was up for it and she whipped off her legal gear quicker than Paul Gadd will be back in the ELC. Busi was right. This brief was epic. Her milky white duds had nipples darker than South London and her clunge was wetter than Tony Bullimore's copy of Heat and covered by a horse hair merkin.

Akabusi jumped on her like SO19 on Brazilians and tore into her like a Fitness First bag on the top deck of a bus. To the assembled crowds it looked like a feral chocolate scales of justice was attacking a white gavel of sexiness. Busi was inflicting Zero Tolerance and Maximum Poundage into the defence and she was lapping it up like a cat with diabetes.

Within hours he was was on his violent, volcanic vinegars and he let spray with such a gush of giant tadpoles the Judge fell to his knees and prayed for a Noah's Ark speed boat to pull up. Justice had been served and as Busi rolled up his Persian he thought he might just make the flight to Florida and the hook up with Black and Regis. This was a good day.

"Mr Akabumbumbum, what is your verdict?" pleaded the sodden Judge. "Quality shag. Quality" roared Busi as the twin drummers started up again. "And him? Let the all the f**kers go. It's summer time! Let's get out there."

Busi pulled on the shredded dungs and looked down upon the pile of flipping flapping spermazota, horse hair, fertiliser and torn stockings, bent down, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.

It was a dreary October morning in the living room of the Busi when the rain-soaked letter landed on the front door mat. Regis remained semi-conscious on the blood-stained couch, drooling slightly and struggling to breathe as he regretted donating both kidneys to a backstreet surgeon in exchange for 50 quid the night before. Kris opened the envelope to reveal a dampened sheet of paper headed “BBC – Ready, Steady, Cook!” This was the second TV appearance Kris would be making in the last 12 months, previously appearing in a Crimewatch reconstruction with Linford as CCTV criminals wanted in Slough for armed robbery and the buggery of a goat.
It got better for Kris: he would be cooking alongside the elegant, horn-inducing Nigella Lawson and her oversized baps and he was looking forward to assisting her in stuffing beef sandwich. Delighted, and with his boxers already getting moistened, he darted for the front door and jumped into the Corsa, bound for Pinewood Studios.

It was time for filming, the hot studio lights came on, the cameras rolled and Busi was introduced by Ainsley. But it started off badly; Kris tipped the contents of his plastic bag onto the marble table top to reveal a misshapen carrot, two turnips, two sweet potatoes and a packet of Tesco value clotted cream. The most important aspect – meat – had not been presented so far, as producers had managed to convince Busi ten minutes before recording that his own blood-filled aubergine did not constitute edible meat and could not be served on primetime TV. Kris begged to differ on both counts.

But before he could start argue to the rolling cameras, Nigella gracefully entered onto the stage, her jugs almost bursting through her tight, silk top. Nigella walked over to the kitchen table top where Kris would soon be working (with) her, biting down gently on her index finger and raising a suggestive eyebrow.

That was all that was needed. Busi’s kecks dropped to the floor quicker than Pavarotti after a heart attack, and with the same vibration, as his inflating jackhammer and engorged chestnuts twanged into the Zanussi oven door. Blood rushed to his pulsing helmet quicker than Michael Barrymore getting to the lost child tent in Disneyland and by now, the swollen python, with its head throbbing more than the eye of a man called Hashimoto with conjunctivitis, eyed up the beaver under the stone-washed denim skirt.

Ainsley shouted “Get cooking”. Perhaps Kris had misheard; within a split-second the Buse-meister was behind Nigella’s buns aiming his interc*ntinental missile at her vulval fishmongers with the same devastation as a US rocket in an Afghan market. Before the on-screen clock even read 0:03, denim fibres were forcefully parted as Busi’s hairless womb ferret burrowed through the layers of clothing like a tarmac drill through warm butter. His sheer ramming speed meant it was only on the 4th thrust that Nigella noticed her vestibule had been violated and a quick look to the sauces shelf showed that it wasn’t the mayonnaise that had been spilt at her feet.

Meat was back on the menu as Kris stuffed Nigella’s turkey curtains like it was imminently Christmas dinner with the Klumps.

The audience reaction was a sight to behold; a mixture of emotions ranging from disgust, from the 60 year old women in their cardigans, to sheer delight, from their husbands. An elderly man in his eighties suffered a fatal stroke 6 minutes in whilst one thirteen year old boy, present on media studies work experience, got into the spirit of things, hand fapping away in the trouser department as the tits dropped out.

It was Ainsley’s non-plussed reaction which was most surprising; this was nothing new when he presented the show, and he was actually more upset that Kris was the man to get in there first with the, now streaming, Nigella. He regularly enjoyed entertaining the guest chefs, except last Monday, when Ainsley’s guest chef was Anthony Worrall-Thompson and that encounter left his eyes watering more than if he rubbed extra strong chilli powder right into them.

The countdown had begun, and Kris stepped up a gear, determined to serve the crème de la crème before time was up. Ainsley encouraged the crowd…“10…9…8…” but Busi had not reached that stage yet “…7…” He knew he had to perform the goods now otherwise the vote would go to green peppers. “…6…5…” He knew he couldn’t rely on the vote of the 13 year old – he had temporary left his seat to wash out his pants in a back stage sink. With the nation’s eyes on him the move had to happen now. Busi girded his loins and grabbed forth, milking Nigella’s udders as if to squeeze any final drops out. The crowd counted louder and with a split-second to go he ploughed his way forward for the final time.

The crowd roared and held up red tomato cards as the Buse returned his simmering aubergine into the dungarees from whence they came. Ainsley came over to admire the astronomical effort, noting how the now-comatosed Nigella’s streaming goo-pouch looked non-functional for at least a fortnight. It had been a week since Kris sowed his seed. This meant 2 and a half litres on this occasion. He leant forward to admire the piece de resistance, and to the standing ovation and applause, whispered “awooga” in her ear, and patted her on the fanny

Akabusi was board shitless. He’d spent the summer touring butlins with his one man hip hop show ‘POSITIVE MENTAL ATTITUDE’, and despite being shagged more times than a glory hole arse in worm wood scrubs, he’d failed to get a new contract. Apparently the sight of busi’s seasoned warhead poking out the bottom of his denim patchwork dungarees each night was enough bell chiming for even the most experienced Benedictine monk.

The free tickets, won by the women’s institute from Grimsby were the final nail in the coffin. In the final number on the last show busi, as usual, got the crowd on there feet with a moonwalk. As he ended it with his trade mark spin his alarm clock necklace spun around at a pace so fast it could have done the final leg of the Olympic relay instead of that Redmond . As it swung the women’s institute leader in the VIP seats ducked with all the nonchalance of a gay doing the time warp and the clock whizzed past her head to the gasp of the crowd. Unfortunately this then put her in the flight path of the new airbus A380 that was coming around just as fast, the brown model, capped with a majestic bellend, busi’s cock.

When the woman, who would later be named Maud Belshaw, was found, she was wedged in the mini golf windmill with only a pair moll Flanders Victorian briefs to keep her modesty. The free tickets to the krankies show the next night offered the same satisfaction as opening the window and fucking the night. In short he’d fucked it.

Back at his £109,526 maisonette mansion the ensuing empty diary was concerning, as Regis remarked there were exactly 20736 minutes until Christmas and he was hoping Kriss would buy him the new European dictionary as a Christmas present so he could count the vowels before the queens speech. Just as busi was about to have a crywank the phone rang. It was Aly McCoist, he was experiencing turbulent times in Europe with his thread bare rangers side and had never forgot the motivational speech that Akabusi had gave him on the question of sport set that led to him porking sue barker. The request was simple, “come to Malmo , Sweden and deliver the speech that made me that spunk filled teenager with the rapist wit”.

Busi grabbed his Tesco’s bag for life, his khaki dungarees together with khaki military cap, one of blacks knuckle dusters, Regis, 52 rubics cubes and some reggae raggae sex lube. Like a Spike Lee version of batman they jumped in the 1.2 ltr 16v Vauxhall corsa and sped off to Malmo .

McCoist's wishes were granted busi delivered a speech like a cultured thespian trying to resurrect his career before a gentleman’s evening sex show. He sent that rangers side onto the pitch with more spunk than a bukake party at a scout’s weekend.

Unfortunately the power of the speech was so emotionally charged it caused two players to get sent off and rangers to be knocked out of the champion’s league. It also caused Regis to piss and shit himself.

Dejected and disappointed busi made his way down the tunnel after the game and saw super Ally storming into the changing room like Prince Phillip in Clarks finding out the shoes he was trying on were made by a pack of Indians. As the door slammed the gust of wind shot up busi’s dungarees and tickled his balls like john Virgo removing dust on pot black. As he looked up he saw a tearful, Mrs. McCoist Mark II, Vivian Ross, he knew under her rangers tracksuit top and Nokia mobile phone necklace were a pair of Bristol’s so round and aggressive they wouldn’t look out of place storming towards the half price pastries in Asda.

“Thank god you’re here Kriss” she shrieked “ally’s career is over he’s spanked £15m in one game”! As she explained away the side’s demise Akabusi knew she couldn’t keep her eyes off his Bovril colored batty that she knew would act as the perfect sex hammer for his growling man torch. “Kris, why do you have the corner flags down your dungarees, they need to go over here in the store” she said, as innocently as Barrymore showing guests the outdoor pool at midnight. They entered the make shift boudoir like Fred and Rose west smelling sex in the air.

Within a split second he ripped open her tracksuit to expose two tits as round, but slightly more aggressive than first thought, for a split second he didn’t know whether to suck them or do the Ali shuffle and bring in a sweet right hook. “Now let’s see if I can hit the back of the net and finish the job” roared Akabusi like Chewbacca signaling his intent in the Wookie mating pen.

The delirious Ross let slip her tracksuit bottoms to release a pussy so sexually charged it could power a light house on the moon, and the throbbing clitoris poking out was so big and battered it reminded him of Steve Ogrizovic's nose. Busi leaned backwards with his hands on the floor staring upwards looking like a polished ebony giraffe sold on the beach in Magaluf. He then sprung up like a diversity dance move and plunging deep into Ross with all the arrogance and know how of Willis giving NASA drilling advice in Armageddon.

Within a matter of hours it was all over, the spouse of one of sports cheekiest chaps’ body was lying strewn on the floor in a pile of spunk, hair, muscle rub and orange quarters. Akabusi bounded to his feet, his confidence enriched by this apocalyptic intercourse. “Fuck butlins!” he thought. He untangled his still twitching cock and placed it back into his ready for action dungarees. He returned to his bamboozled sportsman’s diner, bent down and whispered “Awooga” in her ear and patted her on her fanny

Akabusi sat in the park throwing bits of sausage roll at a one legged pigeon as the winter sun beat down on his ebony dome like Ike on his first wife. He'd picked up two sausage rolls and a Steak Bake from Gregg's at the station and found a quiet spot in the park. The Steak Bake had given him serious heart burn which only a bottle of Tango could put out. He'd bought a bottle of Lilt instead. All in all it had been a sh*t day for Akabusi.

His accountant Harvey Goldenblum had called him earlier and confirmed that his £117,980 mansion in Brickhills had been repossessed by the National Lottery. Akabusi had become addicted to online scratchcards and things had got so bad he sold all his medals and naked pictures he had of Norris McWhirter. The ten quid he had got on eBay for the lot hadn’t made a big difference.

On the upside the cool air of the wind brushed against his expresso chassis like Rolf Harris on canvas. He felt his tremondous length growl like a waking tiger - it wanted feeding and he knew it only ate pussy. He popped his hand inside his grey dungerees and pinched the increasingly engorged helmut to quell it's mounting excitement. He brushed pastry flakes into a pile and then necked the lot of it. It made him feel good. Like a man again.

He made a little pooh behind a tree and headed over the road to the Palace.

Akabusi had been to Buckingham Palace before - he picked up some mickey mouse MBE back in the day. He hadn't disgraced himself and poor old dead Diana had welcomed a fanny patting. Today Akabusi and Roger Black were receiving a little badge to thank them for not killing any spastics on a outward bound trip to the Brecon Beacons. The Palace didn't know that a little window slurper had fallen off a cliff and Akabusi and Black had buried the body in a shallow grave. Hopefully feral cats and foxes would do the rest.

Akabusi mingled with the crowds of Lords, Ladies and f**king Tanni Gray Thompson. Tanni managed to get invited to all these things and the Palace had excellent access due to the Queen Mother. Akabusi didn't need any encouragement from Jim Davidson, who was receiving a knighthood for services to race relations, and pushed Tanni into a broom cupboard and jammed the door. Hopefully the feral cats and foxes would do the rest.

The Queen appeared. Akabusi couldn't help but feel a sudden rush of blood and cum rush into his empty brown wheely bin and his giant testes twitch like a black body builders pectorals. His proud onyx majesty rose to attention as everyone stood. He looked like a brown flag pole and his flag of spunk and a little p*ss was attempting to unfurl. As Her Majesty went by his erection fell to it's knees quicker than a Romford secretary. She was minging.

Akabusi was f**king confused. He was expecting Helen Mirren - that glorious old milf that he'd seen on a pirate dvd the night before. The reality was some old bird who he suspected had bristols like burst balloons and a clunge as crusty and useless as a Conservative Peer. His sword sheathed and his balls bowed Akabusi went off looking for pussy elsewhere.

Akabusi headed down to the stables. He liked horses, they knew what it was like to carry such a dead weight betwixt ones's thighs and he often used to train with Desert Orchid at the Linford Christie Track. The sessions would often end with mutual masturbation from which Akabusi would keep Orchid's horsefat and sell it to Arabs. He didn't know what Orchid did with his though.

Kriss let the buckles of his smart dungerees slip to the sh*t covered hay and let the fetid air of the stables circle him scum round buy one get one free deals. "Do you ride Mr Abakumisi?" said a female voice from behind Akabusi. He froze. The lady was so full of plums he felt like he felt when he'd teabagged Janet Street Porter.

He slowly turned around looking like a chocolate Challenger tank heading into battle. Before him was a brunette dressed in tight cream jodhpurs, white blouson and a pair of patent leather riding boots that would bring a tear of cum to any man's cock eye. He knew that beneath the riding gear were at the most two sparking bristols and a clunge as smart and as bald as Helen Rollinson. But not as dead.

"Do I ride? What do you f**king think!" he roared with a laugh so loud the horses bolted into the yard and killed two OBEs and a bloke in an electronic wheelchair. His sceptre rose to knight the girl whose tight jodphurs were becoming wetter than a child at an Art Malik birthday party. He was going to get royally laid.

"My name's Kate. Kate Middleton" she said with a voice as silky and hot as a balti fart in tight jockeys. Akabusi became so hard he thought some c**t was going to put Excalibur into it. The future Queen let loose rivlets of brown hair and loosened the buttons of her blouson. Akabusi wasn't one ot stand on ceremony so he tore her top off like a Zulu at Rourke's Drift. A pair of epic creamy white bristols store at him like Paul McKenna's eyes. Kate ripped off her jods and stood before Akabusi naked - her glistening axe wound beckoning him to bow at her feet.

Akabusi tore into her like Henry VIII at a Toby Carvery. His hands were all over her like the old Empire and some of the acts they were committing were just as horrific. He plunged deep into her like a jousting event and felt her cold regal body rub against his hot black tribal like years of oppression. She was greedy for cock and Akabusi wasn't one to disappoint. He thought later that she might make a career as a sword swallower if this Queen sh*te didn't work out.

Within hours it was over, Kate lay a mangled mess of white flesh, medals, horse sh*t, cum and vol au vents. Akabusi pulled out of her like Hong Kong, letting his weeping willow of brown muscle to roll around in the hay. Akabusi was sure that his rampant manslush had reached the inner sanctum and he broke into a wide sh*t eating Akabusi grin as he thought of a brown baby being born to the royal household in nine months times. "Try explaining that you bitch!" he roared.

He could hear the constant banging of Tanni Grey Thompson somewhere in the Palace so he bent down over the sated, upper middle class spunk vessel, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny