Monday, July 11, 2005

Four

Dave Blunkett eased Nancy Friday’s silky red gusset aside and began to tongue her moist crevice. Seeing as how the ‘Youth TV’ presenter had been expertly blowing his plonker for well over half an hour, it was only right she got a bit of licking back. Though I’m fucked if I’ll do it for more than five minutes before I shove the old monster in, he thought coolly.

He’d met her about six hours previous. Hitler Rally had been doing a couple of numbers on her teatime pop show. A couple of stooges ware standing in for the banged-up Neil Spencer and the mentally fucked Mike Read. Blunkett couldn’t even remember the fuckers’ names. He’d bunged them a few quid and they were happy to get their five minutes of fame as sidemen to the newest and most infamous cult musician in the U.K.

Hitler Rally had done just two new songs — ‘Backscuttling The Cripple’ and their debut single ‘Klaus Barbie Doll’ which was tipped to enter the charts at number one next week on its release. Not only were the band signed to E.M.I. (although Blunkett insisted on retaining the NAZI SEX MURDER label - and the record label executives were more than willing to create this special subsidiary vanity label for their new star), but with all the tabloid interest surrounding Hitler Rally, every single teenage idiot in the land would be rushing out to buy the tuneless electronic dirge as a badge of their rebellion. These same teenagers probably all based their wank fantasies on Nancy Friday, the bimbo TV presenter whose anus Dave Blunkett was now fingering while he spread her pink fanny lips wide and sniffed in her womanly aroma.

He turned her around and propped her bum in the air on a pillow and paused for a few seconds. ‘Dave honey, what’re you doing?’ gurgled the bimbo. ‘I can’t decide whether to go for the pink or the brown’, deadpanned Blunkett. The brainless TV muppet squealed in hilarity — her latest pop star conquest was referring to the joke about Steve Davies and the prostitute with which he’d broken the ice with her at the afterehow drink and coke party earlier that night.

Blunkett did the damage on each hole in turn before shooting a thick wad of liquid genetics onto Nancy’s back. While it was still trickling into the crack of her perfectly rounded anus as she let out her last gasps of kinky pleasure, the power electronics guru quickly dressed and decided to get the fuck out pretty sharpish. This bimbo was nothing special in the sack, and not as tasty as she looked on the tally.

‘Oh Dave, don’t go just yet...I’ve got some more coke!’
‘Listen darlin’ I’m really gonna have to make like a panda right now. I’ll call you sometime, OK?’
‘Oh, alright. What you on about, like a panda?’
‘Eats shoots and leaves’ smiled the charismatic industrial megastar as he left Nancy to her own perverse sexual introspection in yet another lonely dildo session.

Walking out of the swishy Mayfair penthouse Blunkett tipped the doorman, who responded with a ‘Thank you sir. Goodnight’ and opened the door of the twisted noisemeistar’s limousine.

As he helped himself to the well-stocked mini-bar of the limo (having told the driver to ‘Just drive anywhere, I don’t really care where’) Blunkett suddenly remembered that tomorrow morning he was being interviewed on Radio Four. Some serious discussion show or something with a load of top politicians on it. I’d better lay off this booze if I’m to be fit for that, he thought - and do some serious white lines!

Blunkett spent the next four-and-a-half hours just driving round London in the record company limo, doing top grade cocaine and watching bits of telly with the sound turned down. The car stereo was blasting out rough mixes of the Hitler Rally debut LP, ‘FISTASHITTER FOR HIMMLER’. As the powerful track ‘The Buggers Club’ came on — Blunkett’s favourite — he gazed out of the window to see that they were now passing through the Kings Cross area. A cold-looking teenage hooker lurked around a lamppost. A pissed up tramp lay dying in an alley. A big black guy was beating himself up and screaming in some sort of crazy bad-drug-inspired rage. These are my people, thought Dave fondly as he glimpsed all these street crackpots. These people are basically the reason why I’m doing what I’m doing, he reflected as he inhaled another big line of the Bolivian marching powder.

At 7 a.m. he forced a Big Mac and fries down and decided he’d better get down to the studio. He was dropped there by the now thoroughly browned-off chauffeur and was soon shaking the hand of the show’s presenter, Cath Carroll.

Fuckin’ hell, thought Blunkett. She’s proper ‘thinking man’s crumpet’ tackle. Over-educated and intellectual, Cath was a well-preserved 35. She talked like there was fucking plums in her mouth but something about her eyes told the cocaine-crazed mental guru that she was the sort who’d want you to do the damage up against a wall in some dilapidated slum. Or you’d get to har gaff and she’d have a bunch of kinky leather and rubber gear, and loads of books by De Sade and the like. Just as some men have a ‘feel’ for violence, Dave had a basic ‘feel’ for shagging. He loved fanny and he’d been getting loads since he’d got famous. These fucking slags, he thought — half of them wouldn’t have looked at me six months ego and now they’re all fuckin’ gagging for it! What a load of silly shallow slappers.

Dave drank a few cups of coffee and flirted with the classy media babe. The politicians, doctors and the like who made up the rest of the panel were looking a bit put out at all the attention this ‘art’ hooligan was getting from Ms. Carroll.

Eventually the show got underway. ‘Good morning end welcome to The News That Matters’ enunciated Cath through her heavily revloned gob (which Blunkett already knew his knob would be in before the morning was through). ‘Today we are discussing Power Electronics, the new youth music cult which is threatening to become bigger - and infinitely more disturbing to parents and teachers - than the hippy and punk movements of the sixties and seventies. My guests are Mr.David Blunkett of Hitler Rally, Sir Richard Astley the Deputy Prime Minister, Mr.Ian Brady, the Chief Executive of the General Medical Council, Miss Virginia Astley...'

Blunkett dozed off for a few minutes and was woken by the strident voice of one of the uptight pricks on the panel: ‘And I put it to Mr Blunkett that this movement is nothing more than a money-making gimmick and symbolic of not only a decadent music business, but an ever-more decadent society in general!’
‘I fuckin’ hope it is’, swore Dave. ‘At least we’re not acting like social workers. Anyway the main thing is the noise and no-one ever talks about that, just the paraphernalia. That noise sound is what we like, it’s what we really love. It reminds me of cracking a virgin or opening the shrinkarap on a deck of fags when that synth kicks in, and that. So fuck off’.

The panel went quiet for a minute, and Cath Carroll freaked a bit - there were going to be shitloads of complaints about the swearing. She’d been too busy planning Blunkett’s seduction before the show to remind him not to come out with any foul-mouthed filth.

Suddenly some arsehole of a doctor piped up and saved the day. ‘Are you aware that exposure to these sound frequencies at such volume can cause permanent...’ Blunkett blacked out again and was unconscious for the rest of the programme.